Steele in Perspective
by Madeleine Gilbert
Summary: S5; Steele Inseparable series, Pt 1. Daniel's death provides the impetus for Remington and Laura to declare their love. But does that mean everything is resolved? Also, the newlyweds face a new threat. Set the morning after "SWAK2" with scenes from same.
1. Chapter 1

STEELE INSEPARABLE , PART I: Steele in Perspective

STEELE INSEPARABLE , PART I: Steele in Perspective

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: Daniel's death provides the impetus for Remington and Laura to declare their love for one another. But does that mean everything is resolved? Also, the newlyweds face a new threat from an unexpected quarter. Set the morning after "Steeled with a Kiss Part 2", with integration of scenes from same.

DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with _Remington Steele_, its producers, its actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network, or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.

ABOUT THE RATING: I don't have anything against explicit love scenes. I'm just not very good at writing them.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Unlike most RS fans, I didn't completely dislike "Bonds of Steele"or the premise for Season 5. I thought both had the potential to develop into interesting stories. However, I was horribly disappointed by how Season 5 actually aired for the same reasons as many other fans were. The innovation I hated most of all was the introduction of the character of Tony Roselli as a rival for Laura's affections. 20 years later, I'm getting my revenge: turning Roselli into a villain while at the same time repairing the damage done to the characters of Remington and Laura in season 5 and taking them past "Steeled with a Kiss".

(1)

Remington Steele awoke from a sound sleep, blinking in the sunlight flooding in through open drapes. Irish sunlight: so radically different in its gentle diffuseness from the harsh glare of southern California. He would recognize it immediately, even if he'd been away from it for a hundred years. But he didn't need it to orient himself, for he knew exactly where he was. Ashford Castle's master bedchamber, with the canopy of the massive four-poster curving above him. And, in his arms, his best friend, business partner and long-time object of his affections, Laura Holt.

They'd fallen asleep curled together, spooning, and they were still lying that way, his arms wrapped around Laura from behind, her fingers entwined with his. Beneath their clasped hands, he could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. Savor the moment, old man, he told himself, so he lay watching the room slowly brighten, just holding her, not wanting to break the spell.

At last she stirred a little, yawned and stretched, and he lowered his lips to her ear. "Awake, Mrs. Steele?"

Mmmm," she answered, while he softly kissed her earlobe and nuzzled her neck. She snuggled down, fitting herself more closely against him for a while, and then, with one of her brisk movements – she was just as decisive in bed as out of it, he'd discovered - flipped over so that they were eye to eye. She beamed at him. "Good morning, Mr. Steele."

He gazed back at her. He said nothing, but his face lit up in an answering smile, one of the few he'd been able to muster since Daniel Chalmers' sudden death three days before.

She caught her breath at the sight of it. They'd done it at last, they really had: opened the door, taken the step forward, turned the corner – all the awful euphesisms, as she'd once said to him, that people use for going to bed. And this they owed to Daniel, the very last person she ever would have expected.

For, strangely enough, it was his death that had enabled them to clear away much of the misunderstanding that had been smoldering far too long between them. Certainly it had put things into perspective. In the face of such a loss, the emotional tit for tat they'd been playing since well before their fishing trawler wedding looked exactly what it was, childish and petty. Who wanted to carry a grudge about stupid stuff when they had such a fresh reminder before them of death's capriciousness and irrevocability? Why stubbornly refuse to forgive and forget at the risk of losing another loved one?

Remington's grief had also done much to erase the distance between them. They'd both been startled by its intensity. Probably it was the two shocks in such quick succession: discovering Daniel was his father and then losing him, all within 24 hours. Or maybe it was realizing that the circle of those he loved and trusted, never wide to begin with, had contracted. Whatever the reason, his normal self-possession had crumbled and, as a result, he had reached out for Laura in a way he never had before.

That was the amazing thing. She knew from experience how he usually coped with emotional stress – moody silence, withdrawal – and had long ago accepted that beneath her Mr. Steele's sunny exterior lurked plenty of shadows. Once she was satisfied that his chosen escapes were unlikely to land him in jail or the morgue, she'd learned to deal with his moods by leaving him alone. She'd expected to follow the same strategy this time. But that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to try and talk it out, and she was the one with whom he wanted to share it. How heart-wringing that had been! All the years he'd been telling her he didn't know the words, he hadn't been kidding. But somehow his broken sentences, his silences and hesitations, told her more than hours of smoothly flowing conversation would have done. In the same way, at the same time, he'd sketched for her his early life in Ireland before he'd met Daniel. Now she understood, as she hadn't before, just how loveless and lonely his childhood had been, and what a testimony it was to Daniel's determination that his son had turned out comparatively healthy, emotionally speaking. Her respect for Daniel had increased accordingly.

In the meantime, they waited two suspenseful days to hear whether Remington's plan to expose Stirling Fitch had succeeded. Finally they heard from Marisa Peters about the disposition of the three coffins. Fitch was in the hands of the M5; Kemadov had arrived safely at Andrews Air Force base in the U.S.; Daniel's body was lying in state in a closed coffin at the Kremlin. The BBC was to air a report on the evening news, if Remington and Laura were interested.

They were interested. Last night after dinner, they'd settled off the main hall in a small parlor they'd begun to favor, and killed time before the news broadcast by watching re-runs of _The FBI_ and _77 Sunset Strip_. The fact that Remington didn't insist on searching for a movie instead was to Laura convincing proof that he was barely aware of what was on. Personally, she was struck by the resemblance the lead actor in those shows bore to Daniel, but she kept her observations to herself. Remington probably wouldn't appreciate them in his current mood, anyway.

He'd been very quiet all evening; as the news began, he stopped talking altogether. She almost thought that he'd forgotten she was beside him until he put his arms around her and pulled her to him. It was an action that spoke more clearly than any words of his loneliness and need. She settled in his lap with her head pillowed on his arm and hoped that her presence was doing him some good.

In silence they listened to the voiceover as the footage of two funeral services unfolded on the screen. They had to read between the lines, of course, but the report told them everything they needed to know about Daniel's final resting place. In London he had been knighted for heroic service, and there would be erected a monument for him there; in Moscow, his body would lie in a grave marked with the name of Sergei Kemadov.

It was over. Remington aimed the remote control at the TV set and the screen went dark. For a time they were quiet, lost in their separate thoughts. Then Laura shook her head, her smile tinged with an admiration she'd never shown Daniel in life, and which would have amused him exceedingly if he'd been there to see it. "Only Daniel could have managed to be buried as a hero in both London and in Moscow."

"It's the ultimate con." A long sigh slipped from Remington as he added, "He deserves nothing less."

Among he regrets he'd poured out over the last few days was the impossibility of giving Daniel a proper funeral and the prospect of never knowing just where his father's body lay. Maybe this glimpse, brief as it had been, would comfort him a little. At least it was some kind of closure, Laura thought.

"You're a good son," she said, reaching up and gently squeezing his wrist.

"Yes, well…" He stared across the room without really seeing it. "I only wish I'd spent more time with him."

"On the other hand, you spent twenty years with him."

He thought about that for a moment and then with a grunt tossed away the remote. Gathering her more closely into his arms, he said softly, "One thing's for certain. I'm not going to lose any more precious time in showing people who are close to me how I feel for them."

She turned to him; he dipped his head slightly in invitation. When she raised her face, their mouths met and opened to one another. Steele brought his hand up to brush the hair back from her ear and she leaned her cheek into his caress.

It was she who broke away by slipping out of his arms and off the couch. He looked disconcerted at first, but his face cleared when she held her hand out to him. "Care to elaborate, Mr. Steele?" she asked.

He took her hand. "Well, we have the castle to ourselves - " he rose and in one smooth motion swung her up into his arms – "Mrs. Steele."

He headed towards the door, and Laura smiled at him. Being carried off to bed like this was a first for her; none of her boyfriends had ever tried it, and she'd never encouraged them. Privately she thought that, good as it looked in the movies, it would probably be awkward, even comical, in real life. But she had to admit that Remington was managing it with his usual style and aplomb. In fact, he made it pretty romantic.

Continuing through the door, he pushed it shut and gracefully maneuvered her through the diminishing gap into the main hallway. Though it seemed deserted, Laura gazed around in suspicion. "Where are the servants?"

"Out celebrating. I've decided to give them the castle."

"That was awfully gracious of your lordship."

"The act of a desperate lord, I assure you." He looked deeply into her eyes, but Laura wasn't yet satisfied.

"Where's Mildred?"

"Out celebrating as well. I've decided to give her Mikeline."

"You mean - " At the delicious thought, a smile curved Laura's lips. "There's nothing between us and the bedroom door?"

They were at the foot of the stairs; for answer, he bent to his head to kiss her, which was the cue, it seemed, for the hall telephone to peal shrilly in the castle's silence.

Laura slid out of his arms again. "I'll get the phone, you turn down the covers." She pressed a kiss on his lips.

Remington looked from her to the phone and back, nodded and began to climb the steps two at a time. Making a cocked pistol out of his thumb and forefinger, he aimed and fired at the phone as he went.

"Well, they finally released me," Tony Roselli announced without preamble when she picked up the receiver.

If he was waiting for some kind of demonstration of relief on her part, he was disappointed. She was preoccupied with the sound of Mr. Steele's footsteps as he moved down the upstairs hallway, picturing with an anticipatory shiver his destination, where she would join him once this conversation was over. "I never doubted it for a moment," she said.

"I still think Steele's plan was a little risky."

She felt a stab of irritation. Who was he to complain when Remington had pretty much saved his butt? "Kemadov cleared you, didn't he?"

Demonstrating quicker perception than she'd given him credit for, Roselli countered her acerbic tone with an intimate one. "Laura…what we talked about earlier still stands."

"Laura?" Remington's voice echoed from the upper regions of the castle. "Bed's turned down."

Into the phone, Laura said, "This really isn't the best time to discuss this, Tony." Over her shoulder she called, "Coming!"

"When can I see you?" Roselli insisted.

She was surprised to find that she wasn't the slightest bit tempted to plan a rendezvous. In fact, she only wanted to get rid of him. "I gotta go," she said impatiently.

"Plumping up the pillows!" called Remington.

"Laura, I'm not giving up on you!" his rival exclaimed.

Did the romantic words disguise a threat? She couldn't be bothered to think about it. "I gotta go - right now. Bye." And she put the receiver back in its cradle with finality.

Running lightly up the stairs, she met Remington on his way down. He paused on the landing, watching her progress in silence.

Laura didn't hesitate. She came right to him, intending to pull his head down for a kiss.

The phone began to ring again.

The moment seemed fraught with layers of meaning. Remington scanned her face, his expression unreadable. He glanced aside at the ringing phone and then back at her.

She met his gaze steadily. "Let it ring," she said, and rose on her toes, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.

He pulled her to him then, pressed her hard against him, and kissed her back. As swiftly and easily as the first time, he caught her beneath the knees so he could pick her up in his arms. He needed his breath to climb the stairs, so they broke apart, but Laura kissed his mouth again and again as he gained the top of the staircase and carried her down the hall.

At the door of the master bedroom, he leaned down to turn the knob and bore her inside. He nudged the door closed with his foot and stood for a moment, holding her.

Did he put her down, or did she drop to her feet? They would never really be sure. Wrapped in each other's arms, they faced each other, as silent as they'd been on the landing below. But this time, Remington's eyes held a depth of tenderness and desire that had been missing then, and it held Laura mesmerized. Of all the moods she'd expected from her Mr. Steele on this occasion – cocky, self-confident womanizer, smirking victor in their battle of wills – this was one that had never occurred to her.

He was the one to break the spell that held them. "Ah, Laura," he sighed. He took her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. She cupped her palm behind his neck to bring him even closer.

The habit of restraining what they felt was so deeply ingrained that it took a minute or two for it to sink in that, this time, there was no need even to try. No Mildred to intrude, no fires to put out at the agency, no reason for either one of them to pull back because of doubts about the other. No reason to put off what Remington had facetiously called "the magical moment" any longer. Finally it was here.

And there _was _magic, marred only briefly, when the hall telephone began to ring, shattering the silence that enveloped them. Remington, who heard it, tensed and withdrew his mouth an inch or two from Laura's; Laura, who truly didn't hear it, and would have ignored it if she had, simply clasped him more tightly and started kissing him all over again.

When they separated, breathless, disheveled and unsteady on their feet, she smiled up at him. "Up, periscope?" she suggested.

His teeth gleamed in the gorgeous grin she loved so well. "Let the chips fall where they may," he agreed.

"Then come with me, Mr. Steele." Taking his hand, she turned and led him toward the massive four-poster, looking back at him over her shoulder. "I believe we promised each other an Irish honeymoon."

She drew him down onto the bed with her; together they sank deep into the feather mattress and velvet coverlet. Sometime later, Remington got up to turn off a lamp they'd left alight. After that, there was nothing to interrupt them in the discovery that there were, after all, answers to the questions that had posed a seemingly insurmountable barrier between them; that there was no disappointment lurking in the fulfillment they'd anticipated for so long; and that the best foundation of all for physical love was the trust and affection they'd slowly built over the past four years.


	2. Chapter 2

STEELE INSEPARABLE , PART I: Steele in Perspective

(2)

Those discoveries were still in their grasp when Laura moved over into his arms the next morning and leaned in for a lingering, lazy kiss.

"You're even more beautiful first thing in the morning than I imagined you'd be," he breathed when they separated.

A blush tinted Laura's cheeks. "Thanks. Although, strictly speaking, this isn't the first time you've seen me first thing in the morning." She began to tick off the list. "The night they blew up my house, the night we spent under I-10, the night in the triple-x movie house on Sunset, at the sleep clinic, that stakeout at –"

"True enough," he agreed. "But the circumstances were a little different, eh? You didn't wake up in my arms."

"I guess not. Sorry. You know I can't take a compliment."

"Yes, well, we'll have to work on that." Grabbing his pillow, he propped himself up on an elbow and with his free hand reached over and smoothed the hair off her cheek. His tousled hair fell across his forehead; his eyes were soft and serious. "So tell me. Any regrets?"

"A few, I guess." When his face fell, she realized she'd made a blunder and hastened to reassure him. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I just wish we'd figured all this out a lot sooner. Think of the trouble we would have saved – with Keyes, with the INS…Think how much frustration we might have saved ourselves."

"Ah." He grinned. "My thoughts precisely – and what I've been telling you all along, if you'll recall."

"I know. It's my fault because I ignored what you were saying to me. I was concentrating on what I expected you to say, what _I_ thought you were saying. But last night I realized something. All this time I've been attaching so much importance to your saying the words, I forgot that my father and Wilson both said them, and they both left. You've never said them, and you've stayed for years."

She had spoken slowly, with difficulty, her brows knitted as if she were threading through a maze of clues. Remington watched her with the same deep tenderness as the night before. "The reason I never said them, Laura, was because I didn't know how, not the ones you need to hear, anyway. I told you that at the Friedlich spa, remember? The only way I knew was to show you. It's all I've ever known, just like I've read you all these years by what you've done for me. Giving me a name and a home – teaching me the business, trusting me as your partner, binding up my bruises, defending me from frame-ups – forgiving me blunder after blunder – coming 5,000 miles last fall to bring me home - That's why I've never insisted on a commitment in words from you. Your deeds proved it, you see. But I did need to share this with you." And he made a gesture that encompassed the two of them and the bed.

"Me, too, only I didn't know it - or didn't want to admit it."

Remington raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Steele, do my ears deceive me, or are you telling me what I think you're telling me?

"Depends on what you think I'm telling you," she replied, laughing.

"Merely that you've acknowledged that actions are significant. And that by making love at this stage of our relationship, we've proven our affection…pledged our devotion…demonstrated our commitment without words, so to speak."

"You'd be correct, Mr. Steele. And you know how I hate to admit I'm wrong."

"That I do," he said. In that characteristic way he had, he tipped her face up to his with a gentle finger beneath her chin and bent to kiss her. "Well, then," he went on when they finally drew apart, "on the heels of that unprecedented statement, I'd like to make one of my own."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat gruffly. "You were right, too. A commitment does need words. Which leads me to my next admission." For a moment, his lashes veiled his blue eyes; then he looked straight at her. "Laura, I love you. With all my heart, I do."

"I know," she said again. "You convinced me last night. But thanks for saying it. And in case hearing the words is worth anything to you, I love you, too."

Though her lips were trembling in an effort to suppress imminent tears, she smiled at him. He was quiet for a beat; his face worked; he was struggling for control, just as she was. Laura watched in amazement as his chest and shoulders heaved in silent emotion. Even she, who knew him so well, didn't get the significance of the moment: this was the first time in his life that someone he trusted had said "I love you" in return, and meant it.

"They're worth quite a lot, actually," he said at length, his voice cracking. "Perhaps more than I can ever tell you." His voice failed altogether then. "Come here," he whispered, and opened his arms to her.

But it was she who gathered him to her, pressed his head to her shoulder, and held him close, her cheek against his hair. One of the few things she and Remington had in common was that neither cried easily, or often, or, if they could help it, in the presence of other people. But over the past several days, reminiscing about Daniel, Remington had once or twice come remarkably close. That had been like peeling back a layer of an onion, and this was, too, a deeper glimpse into the heart of him, as well as the abandonment of another of the defenses they'd each hidden behind so long. Her own tears were beginning to flow; she let them come, and knew that they were both crying from a mixture of joy and grief, regret and relief.

It didn't take long for the desire for comfort to evolve into plain physical desire, or for their embrace to heat into the preliminaries to making love. Soon afterward, Remington was rolling over with her, and they began to laugh, slightly giddy with the newfound freedom of giving themselves completely to one another in the full assurance of being accepted and cherished.

(3)

A clamor from downstairs roused them hours later. They'd slept longer than they meant to; the servants, usually overly attentive, had failed to appear with breakfast, either because they were still recovering from their celebration the night before, or because Mildred had warned them away from the honeymooners. Somewhere a heavy door slammed with a thud, awakening echoes in distant corridors. There were pounding footsteps and distant shouting. Remington groaned as he disentangled himself from Laura's arms and levered himself upright. "Good Lord! I give them the castle and this is how they repay me?"

Laura sat up, too. "Something tells me that's not the servants, Mr. Steele."

The shouting had moved near enough for them to distinguish one voice that rose above the rest. "You got another thing coming if you think you're gonna keep me out of here! I'm not leaving til I see Laura!"

Recognition dawned on them simultaneously.

"Roselli?"

"Tony?"

"Come on!" Flinging back the covers, Remington leaped from the bed to throw on a pair of pajama bottoms, tossing Laura's robe to her. They jammed their feet into slippers and raced down the hallway to the main staircase.

Pandemonium met their eyes. Mikeline O'Flynn, flushed with exertion, was defending the reception hall with a heavy crossbow. The bow was trained on Tony Roselli, who was straining against the grip of two footmen who had him pinned near the hall door. Maids and footmen had gathered in clusters in the hallway and around the foot of the staircase while Mildred barred the bottom step. "Listen, buster," she was saying, "nobody gets up to see Mrs. Steele without her okay. You got that? Especially not a phony-baloney archeologist-spy-home wrecker like you!"

Remington and Laura exchanged a glance before clattering down the stairs. "What in bloody hell is going on here?" Remington exclaimed.

Twenty-odd pairs of eyes swung their way. "Beggin' your pardon, Your Lordship," Mikeline said, "but as Mr. Roselli was taken by the police from these very premises only two days ago, and turned over to the authorities in London, we didn't think it fittin' for him to lurk about without a by-your-leave from Your Lordship and Your Ladyship – beggin' your pardon, indeed, if we've overstepped, sir."

"Oh, Chief, I'm sorry," Mildred added. "We didn't mean to disturb you, but this lowlife won't take no for an answer."

"You got that right!" Tony Roselli resembled nothing so much as a goaded bull, his nostrils flared, his heavy eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. "I came to see Laura, and I'm not leaving til I talk to her."

Remington made an encompassing gesture with both hands as hls eyes swept the hall. "At ease, MIkeline. At ease, Mildred. Everyone else, back to your respective duties, okay? Everything's under control. All right? Bye-bye." As the servants slowly dispersed, Mikeline among them, he added in an undertone to Mildred, "Take a stroll out to the groundskeeper's office, see if any of the lads are about and bring 'em back straightaway – the biggest and brawniest you can find. Off you go." As she left, he turned his gaze to Roselli. His stance was open, his expression genial, but Laura sensed the coiled alertness underneath. The streetfighting instincts honed during his London boyhood were never closer to the surface than in moments like these. "What's all this about then, mate?"

"None of your business. _Mate_." Released by the footmen, Roselli made an elaborate show of rolling his shoulders, twitching his jacket straight and tugging down his cuffs. "I'm here to talk to Laura."

"Really, Antony, is that the tone to take? Is this how you show your gratitude? After we took you in, a wanted fugitive, helped you slip safely out of England into Ireland, sheltered you, snatched you from the clutches of the Russians on more than one occasion, thwarted the murderous design of your traitorous colleague, Fitch –"

"Fuck that, Steele. And fuck the buddy-buddy shit. Way I see it, you would've thrown my ass to the wolves back in England if I hadn't had that Shannon Wayne's statement to keep you in line. As it was, you turned me over to the police first chance you got – "

"To save your hide!" Remington interjected.

"Whatever. You better make sure you don't cross me again, if you don't want your head blown off one day when you least expect it. Like I said, I'm here to talk to Laura."

Laura had been silent during the exchange, and now she surveyed him coolly, arms akimbo. "I thought we already said everything there was to say, Tony."

"Unh-unh. Not by a long shot." He jerked his head at Remington. "Take a walk. The lady and I want some time alone."

"Really? Afraid my wife disagrees, old chap. I distinctly heard her say you've nothing to talk about."

By now Roselli was openly sneering. "Well, yeah, what else is she supposed to say with you standing right there? Take my advice and get your skinny ass and your snotty accent outta my sight so Laura and I can get down to business." He dismissed Remington with a curl of his lip. "Laura, listen. I meant what I said. I'm not giving up on you." Making a visible effort to turn on the charm, he took a few steps toward her. "If there's something he's got on you, some hold he has to strong arm you into this phony marriage, I'll get you out of it. You don't have to be scared of him. He's a pussy, anyway. Just say the word and come away with me."

Laura gasped her outrage; a low growl started in Remington's throat. "Back to that, are we?" And he made as if to spring at his at his adversary.

But Laura grabbed his arm and with all her might held him back. She didn't understand why Roselli was baiting him so blatantly, but she recognized a trap when she saw one – shades of Norman Keyes! - and she wasn't letting her husband fall into it. When Remington started to wrench his arm from her grasp, she shook her head at him and tightened her grip. "I'll get rid of him."

She gazed at Roselli. The frown that furrowed her brow was the one that reduced petty bureaucrats to jello and brought all but the irretrievably hardened of her chauvinistic male clients to their knees.

"Maybe you didn't understand me last time, so I'll spell it out for you now," she said evenly. "I'm where I want to be. Nobody's trapped me; nobody's blackmailing me. That picture you have of me as a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued? It's a fantasy. The same with any notion that I'm only biding my time until I can get out of this marriage, or that I haven't chosen Mr. Steele, or that I don't want him. Do you remember me telling you it's taken us four years of trying to get this close? We've succeeded. Deal with it."

Finally it appeared as though she was getting through. He scanned them both from head to foot, for the first time registering their attire, their disheveled hair and Remington's bare chest beneath the loose folds of his robe. A dull red suffused his face from hairline to collarbone. He glowered at Laura.

"You lied to me!"

"_I_ lied to _you_?" she shot back.

"You led me on!" Of Remington he demanded, "Bet she didn't tell you I called here last night, did she?"

Remington's blue eyes were like ice, but this time he kept himself under control. "No, she didn't. My wife doesn't report her activities and conversations to me, nor would I presume to expect her to. An independent, intelligent woman, our Mrs. Steele. Perfectly capable of taking care of herself, yet willing to lean on her partner – if he's the right partner. Pity you don't know her well enough to fully appreciate those qualities, though I must say, Antony, I have my doubts whether you possess the proper capacity to recognize them in the first place." His cool exterior cracked a little then, and he continued through gritted teeth, "I trust Laura implicitly, you filthy bugger, so it's no use searching for ways to shake my confidence in her."

"Yeah?" Roselli mocked. "You don't sound too sure to me. Whyn't you come here, settle it with me, instead of letting your "wife" do the talking? We'll see who appreciates who."

The moment would have escalated into irreparable violence if it hadn't been for Mildred, who bustled in with a trio of strapping young men, like a determined little tug leading a string of barges. "Here we are, Chief. This is Denis, Fergus and Finnbarr –"

Laura raised her eyebrows at Remington. "Finnbarr?" she mouthed.

"Historic Irish name," he whispered. "Quite common, actually."

"- from the groundskeeping crew. Fellas, this is His New American Lordship, Remington Steele." While the men exchanged greetings, she glanced anxiously around the room, taking in Remington's clenched fists and the tight set of Laura's jaw. She moved over to Laura. "Am I missing something?"

"Nothing, Mildred, nothing at all,' Laura bit out.

Remington promptly took up the thread. "No, indeed, nothing at all. In fact, Antony was just leaving, weren't you, Antony? Ah, yes, and these gentlemen are going to escort him out. Denis, Fergus and Finnbarr, is it? Show Mr. Roselli to the door, would you? In fact, take him as far as the gates, and make sure they're safely locked behind him. Good lads. No, Antony, I'm sorry, but I have to insist. A shame we couldn't offer you hospitality for the night, though I'm sure you understand…honeymooners, otherwise occupied, 'do not disturb'…you get my drift. But I can assure you that I speak for Mrs. Steele as well as myself when I say it's been a pleasure, a real pleasure, to welcome you to our humble castle once again."

The young men had closed in around Roselli and were inexorably steering him, step by step, into the entrance hall. He was impotent and he knew it, but that didn't stop him from spilling out threats. "Think you've seen the last of me, Steele? Think again. You, too, _Mrs_. Steele. What Keyes did is gonna look like Sesame Street by the time I get through with you. And, oh, yeah – it's gonna be a pleasure, a real pleasure, to watch you both fry."

The final glimpse they had of him as the door thudded shut behind him was his distorted face snarling back at them. "A pleasure! I can assure you!"

In the now-silent hall, Remington, Laura and Mildred gazed at one another blankly. "I take it back," Remington said. "Not only is Antony the ogre we thought he was, but he's also quite possibly a lunatic."

Mildred signaled her agreement with a vigorous nod. "You said it, Chief!"


	3. Chapter 3

(3)

(3)

"I'm sorry," Laura said softly.

They had been walking the Ashford grounds for over an hour, and now their path was talking them along the lakeshore. Though rays of the afternoon sun still slanted over the water, it had turned chilly, and Remington had wrapped his jacket around Laura's shoulders some time ago.

The silence between them was not a companionable one. Though every now and again he would take her hand for a while or put his arm around her, he'd been steadily resistant to any effort to maintain a conversation. It was taking all her determination to initiate one now.

His response was terse. "What for?

"That fiasco with Tony. If I'd handled him better, none of this would've happened."

"Nonsense. You've handled him splendidly. Absolutely first-rate. If the man has any residual doubts about your feelings after today, it's because he's in complete denial."

She winced at the sarcasm. "Are you angry?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"A, you haven't strung together more than two sentences all afternoon. B, there hasn't been one hint that we should resume the honeymoon part of the honeymoon. _Something's_ bothering you."

He passed a hand over his face and ran it backward through his hair. "Stirring up the INS mess with Clarissa and completely bungling it with Shannon hardly leaves me in a position to be angry, Laura."

"Maybe not. But you are."

He shrugged. "Fine. I'm angry. Let's drop it, okay?"

"Ignoring it won't make it go away."

He stared out over the water, hands jammed in his pockets.

"I don't want this to turn into an issue between us, Mr. Steele."

He shot her an ironic sideways glance. "A little late to worry about that, eh?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

He walked on without replying, and after a moment, she followed. They had gone a few yards when suddenly he came to a dead stop and swung round to her. "Damn it, Laura!" he exploded. I want to know everything that's gone on between you and Roselli since we left Los Angeles. But I can't bloody well ask, can I, when only a few hours ago I was declaring my complete trust in you. It's like giving that bugger the satisfaction after all!"

"Tony's not around, and I think we can assume your secret's safe with me."

"Then be honest. When he came here today, did he have reason to think he'd find – how should I put it, eh? A warm welcome? Something more?"

They faced each other. Her temper was rising in reaction to his anger, but she fought it down. One of them needed to keep a cool head if this confrontation wasn't to degenerate past the point of no return. All at once, everything between them seemed to hinge on resolving this in a way that acknowledged the truth, but moved them beyond the mistakes they'd made. She felt like she was picking her way through a minefield, where one false step would blow their world sky-high.

Besides, she was clear-sighted enough to recognize in what proportion she deserved his anger, and how much of her own she ought to direct towards herself. Her relations with Roselli had from the beginning unfolded with a good deal of ambiguity - ambiguity that she deliberately cultivated. She'd seen an opportunity to make Steele jealous, it was that simple. Her growing suspicion that Tony was fundamentally making use of her had only made it easier to use him in return. Somehow it hadn't seemed so blameworthy to make a means of manipulation out of her attraction to someone who was playing the same game.

She had behaved badly towards both of them; as much as she disliked herself for it, she had to face it. The issue now was to do her level best to make sure it didn't cost her Mr. Steele.

She took a deep breath, and with an effort kept her voice low and even. "No," she said. "He didn't. Any encouragement he had, he chose to read into the situation. In fact, I pretty much told him to leave me alone."

"I knew it was him on the phone last night."

"I figured you did."

"And you told him it's taken us four years to get this close?"

"No, that was when I helped him escape from the Russian embassy."

"When he made a pass at you."

"He tried. He didn't get very far."

Remington digested this for a moment. "And the day we arrived, in our bedroom? When you kept me cooling my heels in the hallway while he skulked out the window?" She hesitated. "Laura," he said warningly.

"All right!" she shouted. "He got a little farther that time. But it was purely a case of mistaken identity. I thought he was you!

He snorted. "Really, Laura. Antony and I don't resemble one another in the slightest." It was hard to tell whether he was more disgusted by what he judged a lame excuse, or because the comparison to Tony was an insult. "Those hulking shoulders, those beefy arms…And that pseudo-Italian wardrobe – every piece of it right off the rack of an American department store! I'll wager the man has never seen the inside of a decent haberdasher's."

"He was ransacking our room, for your information, and he had his back to me. Believe me, it didn't take long to figure out my mistake, and when I did, I gave him the heave-ho."

"And how long did that take, eh?"

All at once, Laura was furious. "Look," she snapped, "I get it that I gave you cause to be jealous, and I'm sorry. I get it that you have a right to ask me questions and I have a responsibility to answer them. But what _you_ don't get is the right to imply I'm some kind of liar and sneak. Need I remind you that the shoe might easily be on the other foot if I chose to suspect the worst about your recent history with Shannon?"

His body language relaxed at that; he raised both hands, palms out, spread them in a wordless gesture of conciliation. Neither one spoke for a minute or two, waiting for the hostility to dissipate from the atmosphere between them.

She closed the distance that separated them and put her arms around him. He didn't return the embrace, but he didn't shake her off or move away, either. "He tried to kiss me a couple of times," she said. " 'Tried' being the operative word. But it takes two to follow through, so we never did, for the same reason as in Los Angeles: I didn't want to."

"He said you led him on."

"When I told him it's taken us four years to get this close, I also told him I wanted us to be this close, and there was no way I was backing out now. Does that sound like I led him on?"

Remington gazed at her in silence, eyes narrowed, and Laura couldn't tell whether that was good or bad. At least he was still listening, instead of storming off to the castle without her.

"You've always said you trust my instincts," she said. "Does it make sense that a guy like that, with so many holes in his story and a past almost as mysterious as yours, could gain my confidence in a week, when it took you years? Do you really think there was any danger I'd fall for someone who's been seriously blackmailing the man I love – no matter how mad I was at you?" By now, Remington had slipped his arms loosely around her waist. She began to press her point home. "It's you I want, Remington, not him," she said. "I thought I made that plain last night and this morning. I wouldn't have, especially so soon after Daniel's death, if I didn't want us to be together, or if I had feelings for Tony."

"Your commitment without words, in other words," he said, and suddenly gathered her close.

"Exactly," she said, standing on tiptoe so she could press her cheek against his, her arms tight around his neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I love you."

He stooped a little so their lips could meet, and they kissed, gently at first, but with increasing passion. "I understood what you meant by letting the phone ring last night," he said when he could speak again.

"I'm glad."

"I never seriously supposed that anything had gone on with him in our bedroom, not so close on the heels of our own interrupted tryst."

They began to walk back towards the castle, arms around one another.

"It occurs to me, Laura: if I'd been thinking clearly, I'd have realized from the beginning that Roselli isn't in the least your type."

It was the sort of remark which, depending on the day, might have triggered either prickly defensiveness or boiling indignation on Laura's part. He was relieved when she accepted it with equanimity. "What makes you say that? Aside from his obviously volatile temper and general shadiness, I mean."

"Well…there's something of the Neanderthal about him…a streak of the chauvinistic, perhaps. A certain unwillingness to give an intelligent, talented woman her due."

Laura mulled it over. Considering Roselli's behavior the two times they had faced danger together, she had to agree. The way he'd lingered to boost her over the wall when she broke him out of the Dublin embassy was a perfect example. It was a far cry from her and Steele, who almost from the beginning had evidenced a healthy respect for her agility, speed and, yes, her instincts, and trusted her to look out for herself - and him - in everything but pitting her strength against a man in a fight. He knew as well as she did that there was no room in the detective business for a chivalry that sought to shield her like a delicate flower.

And in terms of romance? How did Tony compare there? With a grimace of retroactive distaste, she recalled his kiss in Dublin. How unlike Remington's consistent gentleness and gentlemanliness! In the rare event when Steele succumbed to machismo, and his overtures were more aggressive than usual, it was triggered by emotional duress – jealousy, frustration, a combination of the two – and not a wooing technique. Roselli, on the other hand, a little too full of himself, was all about overpowering and dominating from the get-go. Her husband had it right: "Neanderthal" was an apt description.

It was difficult now to remember what the basis for her attraction had been. Chagrined, she said as much to Remington. "I suppose neither of us, you or me, was thinking very clearly in Mexico," she added. "Anyway, that's over. Obviously he _is_ the ogre we thought he was. The question is how seriously do we take him, now that he's displayed something of his true colors? "

"I've seen his true colors before, actually," Remington replied. "Enough to prove he can play nasty when he wants to. Perhaps our top priority when we return to the office should be getting to the bottom of the mysterious Antony Roselli, eh?"

"An ounce of prevention," she agreed. "Mildred can get started as soon as she goes home." She pictured the dark fury in Roselli's face as he was escorted out the door, and she couldn't help herself: she shuddered. Remington, feeling the tremor go through her, pulled her more closely against his side.

"Cold?"

"Just thinking. We really don't know anything about him. This is a big place, and you don't have a director of security."

"We can always improvise. Set a guard, hire some lads from Glenn Cree, eh? Denis, Fergus and Finnbarr would do very well. Even though their names sound like something out of _Fawlty Towers"._

"_Newhart_," Laura contradicted

He raised his eyebrows. "Newhart?"

"Bob Newhart, Mary Frann, Peter Scolari, William Sanderson, MTM Productions, 1982 to present." Newhart plays a travel writer named Dick Loudon, who moves with his wife, Joanna, to an unnamed rural Vermont town, where they run a bed-and-breakfast. Among the oddball townsfolk they interact with are three backwoodsmen, brothers named Larry, Darryl, and Darryl."

"Television," he said dismissively.

"An art form you may grow to appreciate someday, Mr. Steele."

His only reply was a non-committal grunt.

It was thus, in restored intimacy, they returned to the castle. Lights shone like a welcome from the windows on the lower floor, and fragrant smoke ascended from one of the chimneys. There was a delicious hot dinner waiting for them, they knew; one of the conditions Remington had stipulated upon gifting the servants with the castle was that they would stock the bare larder, and keep it that way until the Steeles departed for Los Angeles. "Mmm," Laura murmured as she opened the door. "It almost feels like coming home.

But Remington didn't follow her in. She turned. "Mr. Steele?"

He was standing on the top step with his back to her. "In a minute, Laura."

For the life of her, she couldn't understand what had him so interested, so she joined him and tucked her hand into his. Eyes intent, forehead wrinkled in concentration, he gazed into the twilight. After a beat, Laura got it. "Remington."

His eyes flicked down to her.

"I doubt whether he'll come back tonight," she said. "And if he does, we'll be ready for him. In the meantime, dinner's getting cold…and we have a honeymoon to resume."

"Ah. Indeed." He seemed to shake off his abstraction and come back to himself. Then he smiled and offered her his arm with the kind of chivalrous flourish he did so well.

"Lead the way, Mrs. Steele," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

(4)

(4)

"Well, that's the last of it," Laura announced, pushing down firmly on the lid of a large suitcase and snapping its locks shut.

"Hm?" Remington exited the bathroom, pushing the knot of his tie up to his collar.

"I think we've got everything."

"Passports?"

She proffered her purse. "Right here."

"Wallet, keys, checkbook…" Patting the appropriate pockets in accompaniment to his words, Remington appeared satisfied that all was in order. "Splendid. I'll take these –" he hefted two large suitcases – "and have Terence bring the car round."

"I'll just be a minute."

As the door closed behind her husband, Laura gazed nostalgically around the master bedroom where they'd slept the last ten days. Now they were off to London for two days and two nights – Remington had proposed it and was insistent upon it – and afterwards would return to Los Angeles to take up the threads of their business and of their personal life.

However inauspiciously their Irish honeymoon had begun, it was ending on a high note, she thought. She would even go so far as to call it a smashing, if qualified, success. For the first time since she and Remington had set foot on that fishing trawler two weeks ago, she was beginning to believe that everything – their troubles with the INS, the ups and downs of their relationship – would work out at last.

To their joint relief, there had been no further sight or sound of Roselli. Even with the guard Remington had posted, they'd been on hyper-alert for a day or two, hardly knowing what they expected. A telegram from the INS, forbidding Remington to return to the U.S? A gun-blazing ambush in one of the castle's darker passages? But nothing had materialized, and they had settled down to the proper focus for a couple who were supposed to be on honeymoon.

They'd been even more relieved to find themselves, as the old cliché had it, "alone at last". Mildred had departed for Los Angeles over the weekend, prompted partly by her consideration for them ("You poor kids have barely had two minutes alone together!"), partly by an acute case of boredom. Dearly as they loved her, neither was sorry to see her go. It was hard enough, figuring out their new relationship and who they were in it. To work the puzzle out under Mildred's sympathetic but watchful eye would've been very near impossible.

It was difficult, it was scary, it was exhilarating. Of all the changes, the sex was the easy part: Laura couldn't believe how soon they'd become comfortable with one another in that respect. Even the first-night awkwardness, the inevitable out-of-synch actions and responses, had worn off fairly quickly. She had a theory about that. Part of it, she thought, was how familiar they already were with one another's bodies, thanks to kissing and petting and dancing and basic everyday contact, all the ways in which they already were a hands-on couple. For years they'd been curling up on his couch to watch movies and dozing next to each other on stake-outs. They'd even slept in the same bed a couple of times – one night in a motel on Olympic, after a double murder attempt by the Perennial Corporation, or, more recently, sharing a cot at a rescue mission during the case when everyone thought they were dead – though those occasions were more about huddling together for warmth and comfort. Still, in view of their past, sleeping together in the massive four-poster almost seemed like a logical progression, with no major adjustment from either of them required.

Not that sex together had already become routine. Far from it. Making love with him was new and always incredible. She loved every part of it. His lean body, his long arms and legs, the hair on his chest, the muscles in his back and arms and shoulders; the way he kissed her now, even better than before - and that was saying a lot, since she already considered him the best; the look in his eyes when they rested on her, as if she were the only woman in the world; his evident investment in and concern for her pleasure; the pure, uncomplicated joy he seemed to take in her every time they were together. In many ways he was both more and less than she'd imagined he would be: more virile, more considerate, more tender, more genuine; less selfish, less cocky, less withholding. Less and less the shady conman who'd over the years operated variously as Michael O'Leary, Richard Blaine, Douglas Quintaine, and more and more the man she'd envisioned when she dreamed up Remington Steele.

That took care of the physical component of her comfort-level theory. The emotional part, she didn't care to delve into too deeply at this point, which was completely unlike her. She didn't fully understand it herself. All she knew was, circumstances had changed, they had changed with them, they were seeing each other and their past through different eyes. Saying "I love you" had resolved some things, but at the same time raised new questions. She didn't want to try to work through them or think about the future; for the moment she wanted to savor with him what they were finding together, with nothing and no one to intrude and spoil it. It would be time enough to hammer everything out when they got home. She knew that Remington, with his undoubted gift for living fully in the present, felt the same way.

Interrupting her reverie, the door opened just wide enough to admit Remington's head. "Coming, Mrs. Steele?"

With his usual easy gallantry, he shouldered her carry-on bag for her; arm in arm, they strolled towards the main staircase. "You know," she remarked, "I'm really kind of sorry we're leaving."

"Begun to grow on you, has it?"

"Let's just say Ireland holds the fondest memories of our honeymoon for me. At the very least, it's 'the worthy setting' where we successfully 'captured the magical moment'. My memories of London, on the other hand –"

"Ah, but Laura, this trip will put them to rest. Think of it! Two full days and nights in the honeymoon suite at the Mayfair St. Johns, the very site where our desire for one another was so cruelly thwarted last time!"

"The Flamingo Club, the Duke of Wallingford's castle, Paddington Station, Scotland Yard until 10 at night, not to mention Shannon and Tony," she reminded him.

"Westminster Abbey," he countered. "St. Pauls. The Tower of London. Knightsbridge. Sloane Street, Beauchamp Square. The Flamingo Club." He caught her look. "We might decide to go dancing, Laura."

She laughed. "Enough with the sales pitch! You've already convinced me."

"Yes, but I knew the Flamingo Club would clinch the deal, so to speak."

As they exited the castle, they found to their surprise that the servants had arranged themselves in a kind of reverse receiving line, similar to the one they'd formed upon the Steeles' arrival. After a sincere, if mostly incoherent, farewell speech, in which the major theme seemed to be that their American lordships were to consider Ashford Castle their home away from home in Glenn Cree, Mikeline bowed them towards the limo amid enthusiastic applause. It was all quite touching; Remington seemed genuinely affected. Terence closed the door of the Rolls behind them and soon they were accelerating down the long driveway.

"They've decided to turn it into a hotel, did they tell you?" Remington asked, twisting around for a last appreciative glance through the rear window at his inheritance.

"Really?"

"They plan to market it as a spot for sporting vacations. Trout-fishing, shooting, off-roading…they've even got an investment group from Invernesshire lined up. Meanwhile, they've extended us a standing invitation to occupy the master suite any time we're in Ireland, except during high tourist season, of course."

"Is that what that speech was about?" Laura exclaimed.

"More or less. He also assured us that any little American lord or ladyships who happen to come along over the years would receive the same warm welcome we do."

"We're not going there right now, Mr. Steele, especially not -" with a glance at Terence, lowering her voice to a whisper - "in front of our current driver. Not everybody's as discreet as Fred, you know."

"Merely repeating the man's words, Laura."

The drive to Dublin was accomplished with time to spare before their flight, and their plane touched down at London Gatwick without incident. It was then, however, that they began to experience a twinge of apprehension. If Roselli were to show his hand anywhere, Remington had posited, it would be in London, where he could use his influence with the INS to bar Remington from the city, or even to force him back to Ireland. Laura had agreed that the scenario made sense in light of Roselli's track record and recent threats. So it was a tense couple who emerged from the jet way, operating at the peek of their trained observation skills as they threaded their way through the crowds to baggage claim.

So far they could detect no sign that they were under any special surveillance. Anonymity intact, they reached their designated baggage carousel, and mingled with other travelers whose personal belongings were also at the mercy of airline personnel. Their talent for blending in, which they exercised when they were under cover, stood Remington and Laura in good stead here; no one could have guessed that each was studying the individual faces around them, marking out the clearest escape routes and nearest exits and registering even the slightest motion made by any uniformed official who came within range of them.

It was only when they moved towards customs that Remington began to betray a hint of nervousness. It wouldn't have been obvious to a stranger, but Laura understood the reflexive tension in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

Unobtrusively she moved closer to him and reached for his hand. She kept her eyes forward and smiled, speaking from between her teeth. "Icy calm, my love, remember? Icy calm."

Not by a flicker of a change of expression did he give her away, but she felt him relax, so much so that by the time they reached the head of the customs line forty minutes later, he was doing an excellent imitation of a bored, impatient traveler. With an expansive sweep of his arm, he motioned Laura to step ahead of him so she could present her papers to the inspector, a woman in a severe blue uniform.

They had already agreed on a strategy that was, in effect, no strategy: adhering as closely as possible to the truth. It would at least assure a minimum of damage if the whole thing blew up in their faces. So when the customs inspector said, "Welcome to London, Mrs. Steele. It seems you've paid us a rather recent visit prior to today?" Laura was thrown off only for a moment.

"Mm, yes. That is, my husband and I are on our honeymoon, and we planned our itinerary so we could spend a few days in London at the beginning and at the end."

"I see." The woman continued to examine the various stamps and stickers, and at length looked up. "Well, all seems to be in order." She stamped a page, and with a cool, professional smile, handed back Laura's passport. "Thank you. Do enjoy the rest of your holiday."

It was Remington's turn. Exchanging the briefest of glances with Laura, he approached the window and handed his documents over. "Mr. Steele, I take it?" the inspector inquired.

"Yes, I'm Remington Steele."

They both watched, barely breathing, as the inspector flipped through the pages of his passport. Were they imagining it, or was her scrutiny more lingering this time? She seemed to pause for an inordinate amount of time on a particular page before raising her head. "Ah, I believed we've solved the mystery."

He swallowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"The reason you've spent the bulk of your honeymoon in Ireland. Giving your new bride a tour of your birthplace, introducing her to family and friends, I should imagine."

"- And I can't begin to tell you how wonderful it was to finally see everyone face to face!" Without missing a beat, Laura inserted herself into the conversation. "Of course we've kept in touch by email and phone, but it just isn't the same. We wanted so much to fly all my husband's relatives to Los Angeles for the wedding, but you can imagine what _that_ would've cost – too much, I'm afraid – and finally we decided, if we can't bring them to us, why not go to them? I've been so looking forward to meeting Uncle Mikeline, and Cousin Denis, and Cousin Fergus, and Cousin Finnbarr.."

"And happy they were to be met, too, darling." Remington had swiftly recovered his composure and was in the spirit of thing. He slipped an arm around Laura's shoulders and pulled her against him. "Yes, indeed, my lovely bride made quite an impression on her new in-laws in the Emerald Isle. Such drinking and dancing, such toasting and feasting, have Glen Cree and Glen Kerry rarely seen. Oh, dear me, they'll not soon forget the arrival of their new American cousin into the family, if I know my relatives."

Laura was wearing the expression that signaled he was overdoing it. "Thank you, dear. But I'm sure Miss – Mrs, uh –" peering at the inspector's nametag – "Jasperwood, is far too busy to listen to our honeymoon stories, fascinating as they might seem to us." She leaned towards the inspector and added in a confidential tone, "Next thing you know, he'll be getting out the wedding pictures, he's _so_ excited that he got me to say 'I do' at last."

"That won't be necessary." Mrs. Jasperwood was regarding them with a puzzled air; it was clear she thought them rather odd. She quickly stamped Remington's passport and held it out to him. "Mr. Steele, welcome to London. And congratulations, and best wishes to you both, on your marriage."

They were too much the professionals to reveal any emotion as they walked decorously away. Through baggage inspection, along the concourse and out to the cab stand, they remained cool, nonchalant, the image of a sophisticated young couple visiting one of the world's great cities.

But Remington allowed himself one lapse, once he judged it absolutely safe: a sideways glance, filled with admiration, at his wife.

"Laura, your powers of invention never cease to amaze me," he murmured.

Coming from him, it was high praise indeed. She said nothing, only flashed her dimple in a mischievous smile.


	5. Chapter 5

( 5)

( 5)

The honeymoon suite at the St. John Hotel, Mayfair, was as inviting as they remembered. Regardless that the clock had just turned over 12 Noon, the Steeles hung out the "Do Not Disturb" sign as soon as they checked in, ordered their calls routed to voicemail, and indulged in all the amenities of which they'd been deprived on their last stay. Laura in particular enjoyed a private smug satisfaction at romping with Remington in the huge round bathtub, the one where she'd discovered Shannon on their first attempt to honeymoon in London. She only wished the other woman could see how incapable "Dougie" had proven of keeping his hands off his wife.

The rest of the afternoon, they transformed themselves into tourists, or, rather, Laura did, with Remington as her guide. It wasn't the mean-streets London of his boyhood that he showed her, but the milieu in which he and Daniel had moved as they worked their cons, upper class, wealthy London and the people who populated it. He'd hinted, in the past, of the dark underside of the life he and Daniel had led, its transience, instability and danger, but today he didn't dwell on it. Instead he made it all sound like an adventure story in which he and his father were the heroes: debonair, dashing, perpetually dressed in black tie and dinner jackets, breaking the hearts of superficial, snobbish debs, relieving the unscrupulous and acquisitive of surplus cash, in their cleverness always two or three steps ahead of Scotland Yard, slipping effortlessly from one role to another, one con to another, one city to the next as they blazed a madcap trail across the Continent. In spite of herself Laura was enthralled. She'd seen a little of the magic, she thought, from the periphery of the two stings in which she'd participated with them. Her rational side, where the detective dwelt, had been appalled by it. Deep down underneath, though, the buried, reckless, risk-taking part of her had wondered a little wistfully what it would be like to be one of them.

In the cab back to the hotel, she slipped her hand in his. "Thanks for trusting me enough to show me that part of your past," she said.

His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "Pleasure."

"I guess I can understand why it wasn't so easy to give it up in the beginning. Los Angeles – even detective work - must have seemed pretty tame after a steady diet of excitement like that."

"To the contrary," he said. "Oh, I'll admit that life as Remington Steele was a trifle confining at first. That's because it was foreign to me. But I've discovered that treading the straight and narrow is just as challenging as the old life ever was…while its rewards -" tipping her face up and leaning in for a kiss, "- are infinitely more satisfying."

"Do you ever regret you didn't go back when Daniel asked you to?" Though she had no doubt as to what he would say, she wanted the pleasure of hearing him say it.

The twinkle in his eyes told her how clearly he saw through her. "I think you know the answer to that," he said.

They had dinner at a pub in Knightsbridge – a little too casual for Remington's taste, but Laura wanted the genuine London experience – with tickets to a West End show afterward. Tomorrow night, the last of their trip, dinner would be formal; Remington had made the reservations prior to departing Ireland. He had promised to devote the bulk of the day beforehand to whatever Laura wanted to do.

So she was a little taken aback the next morning when, after an early morning of lovemaking and breakfast in bed, her husband emerged from his shower and began to don a suit and tie. "Mrs. Steele," he said airily, "can you find something to amuse you while I'm gone?"

She dropped the copy of _Baedeker's London _she was flipping through. "I thought we were going sightseeing! You said we'd take in some of the historic highlights."

"I'd have thought you had your fill of historic highlights last time we were here. Wallingford Castle? When you've see one duke's private parts, you've seen them all, eh? Besides, my love, I've a sneaking suspicion your appetite for exploring is limited to Brompton Road and Sloan Street."

She had to laugh. The siren call of Harvey Nichols and Harrods was impossible to resist, and she'd been wondering how to fit in a few hours' browsing over Remington's certain objection. Though scrupulously attentive to his own wardrobe down to the last detail, he had the typical masculine aversion to shopping for its own sake, and she'd anticipated an intense round of negotiation and compromise. "But where are you going?"

"An appointment. Shouldn't take more than an hour or two. Back in plenty of time to tour the Tower of London, or watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham, or anywhere else my lovely bride wants to go."

An appointment? Laura pricked up her ears. They'd been together practically every moment since their arrival. When had he had time to make an appointment? She felt the familiar old suspicion begin to stir. What could he be planning, and with whom? She began to run the list of the usual suspects through her mind, and then halted. Felicia was in indefinite voluntary exile in the Netherlands Antilles, England having become too hot to hold her; Shannon was in jail; Monroe was a legitimate businessman; Weasel was too poor to afford a bus ticket to Tijuana, let alone airfare to the U.K. And Daniel – well, the days of pulling a caper were past for the biggest instigator of them all.

She flushed a little, ashamed of her thoughts. To make up for them she went to help him with his cufflinks. "Hey," she said when she was finished. Remington looked down at her, smiling. "Anywhere I want to go, huh?"

"Once this meeting's over, I'm all yours."

She grasped him by the lapels and pulled him in for a kiss. "I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Steele."

On her own in Knightsbridge, Laura had a marvelous time exploring the exclusive department stores she'd only dreamed of, as well as the boutiques that flanked them. She found perfect gifts for Mildred, Frances and for her two nieces, and even something, when shipped direct to Connecticut, that she hoped her mother would accept with a minimum of criticism. Briefly she debated picking up something for her brother-in-law and nephew, but decided it was probably a waste of time. Donald and Danny would be far more appreciative of a couple of the agency's tickets to the Dodgers.

For herself she visited the shops that sold refined, classic clothes – no outrageous Italian designers for her – and elegant lingerie. There was a dismaying dearth of sexy undies and sleepwear in her wardrobe, and now that she and Remington were together, she planned to set a higher standard. An added bonus was the discovery of an evening gown perfect for tonight, the kind Remington liked best: the subtle allure that came from the exquisite fit, cut and drape of the fabric, just revealing enough to intrigue, such as one of the actresses he admired from the 30's or 40's would wear.

What she wanted most - a present for Remington – was so far the most elusive. She'd peered through windows at the cream of the world's haberdashery but nothing leaped out at her. It was probably pointless, anyway; whatever she bought would only duplicate something already in his dizzyingly extensive wardrobe. She wandered down the street and wished that inspiration would strike her.

It did. Outside a jeweler's in Beauchamp Place, she stopped short, scanned the merchandise arranged in the front window and then hurried inside, straight to the clerk behind the largest display case. "Could I look at the wedding bands, please?"

She knew what she wanted as soon as she saw it and pointed it out to the clerk. "Can you put on a rush on the engraving if I pay extra? I'd need it before eight tonight."

The clerk confirmed that it could be done. She signed the credit card slip, wrote out the inscription she wanted engraved and had him read it back to her, just in case. "Thanks. We're at the St. John Hotel, the honeymoon suite. Could you tell your deliveryman to have the front desk call me when he arrives? I'll come down and pick it up personally."

She found Remington sprawled on the sitting room sofa watching some old movie when she returned to the hotel. "Ah, Laura," he welcomed her. "Back with the spoils, I see."

He sprang up at once with a tip for the bellman who had brought the various parcels and bags up from the lobby, then helped her wrestle them inside. He gave the pile a dubious look. "I don't mean to be a wet blanket," he remarked, "but have you thought about how we're going to get all this on the plane?"

He beat a summary retreat as she dove headlong into the merchandise. Surfacing at last, she triumphantly displayed two large canvas duffels, complete with locks. "These should take care of it."

"That's what I love about you, Laura – always prepared for any contingency."

She turned and considered him. Propped against the arm of the sofa with his long legs stretched out, hands behind his head, he smirked back at her. He was dressed more casually than earlier, in jeans and a red crewneck layered over a blue turtleneck, looking so outrageously gorgeous that her heart squeezed a little in her chest. No matter how long she knew him, she never got to the point where she took those good looks of his for granted; though her appreciation of them frequently got buried underneath the everyday routine, the endless small frictions and annoyances of working together, there was no shortage of moments like these where they smote her afresh.

And, after all, he really was hers now.

With a flick of her wrist she sent her fedora sailing towards a nearby armchair and tossed her trench coat after it. She shook out her hair, turned back to Remington, and flung herself at him full length. He caught her with his usual presence of mind, his grin widening, though his breath went out of him in a little "oof".

She crossed her arms on his chest and rested her chin on them. "Mr. Steele," she said in mock reproach, "is that all you can say you love about me after two weeks of honeymoon? That I'm prepared for emergencies?"

He shifted position, settling her more comfortably in his arms. "Of course not, Laura. It was merely the suggestion of the moment. Why, the things I love about you would fill a book – a veritable library of them, as a matter of fact."

"Really? Care to share them with me?" When he hesitated, she prompted, "It shouldn't be too hard – you just said there's a 'veritable library' of them."

"Yes, but, Laura," he protested. "Do I detect a faint echo of that chap at the Friedlich spa? Neil Brimsley, wasn't it? This bears more than a passing resemblance to his little exercise where I was to describe your most endearing qualities in a letter."

"Purely unintentional. By the way, it was Arthur Henderson."

"Who was?"

"At the Friedlich Spa. It was his seminar where we wrote those letters, not Brimsley's. And, as I recall, you acquitted yourself very nicely with that assignment, when all was said and done."

"There, you see? That's a perfect example of your extraordinary attention –"

"- to detail," she finished for him. "That's what you love about me, along with my tedious devotion to the Protestant work ethic and my willingness to risk your neck."

To his credit, he looked a little taken aback at the accuracy of her memory. "I've tended to compliment you a bit back-handedly over the years, I'll admit, but it was only meant to uphold our tradition of witty banter."

"Never mind, Mr. Steele. You're forgiven, provided you take this opportunity to redeem yourself."

His brow wrinkled in thought, though whether he was really stumped, or just playing along, she wasn't sure. After a moment, he broke into a grin. "I have it. What I love about you is your lilting voice."

""I've heard that before, too."

"Repeating myself, am I?"

"Yes, but it's a good one, so I'll allow it. Go on."

"No, no, no. Your turn." She raised her eyebrows, so he added, "It's only fair, in view of the fact that I've received my share of back-handed compliments during our illustrious association."

"I guess maybe you have, at that," Laura agreed. "Okay, in the interest of fairness…what I love about you is the way you say my name."

He seemed extraordinarily pleased by the revelation. "You do?"

"Oh, yes. In that accent of yours it sounds like music, except when you're yelling, of course."

"Laura," he said softly, smiling into her eyes. "Laura. Laura."

"Irish music to my ears," she breathed.

He picked up a tress of her hair, rubbed it gently between finger and thumb and held it to his nose, inhaling. He touched it to his lips before letting it fall. "Here's another thing I love, then: your hair always smells of springtime."

"And I," as she ran her hand back through it, "just love your hair, period."

"I'm beginning to enjoy this," he remarked.

"So far you're proving very good at it."

"Yes, well, perhaps that's because I've had years of inspiration, with precious little opportunity to act on it. For instance…" He cupped her right cheek in his hand and gently stroked her dimple with his thumb. "This is definitely one thing I've loved about you from the very beginning." He leaned over so his lips replaced his thumb, trailing a path over to her mouth. Laura raised her face to his, and they lost themselves in a long, slow, sweet kiss. "Your turn," he reminded her when they finally came up for air.

She reached for his hand and held it in one of his hers while slowly stroking it with the other. "I love your hands. They're one of the first things I noticed about you. They're beautiful. Strong, yet gentle…steady, skilful…and safe."

Once again, his face lit up. "I didn't know you considered yourself safe with me. In fact, I rather thought it was the reverse."

"Only In matters of the heart, never when it comes to my life. Do you remember the night outside the Federal Reserve bank?"

"Vividly. We came close to ending before we had properly begun. Far too close for my comfort."

"I don't think you took your eyes off me the whole time I was dangling from the beam. 'You can do it, Laura,' you said over and over. 'Take my hand.' " She drew a deep breath. "Getting up the nerve to let go of that beam was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But when I did, and reached for your hand, you grabbed me, and you pulled me up."

"Thank God I was there to do it."

"And you've been there for me ever since. When that runner, Ivory, took the bait when I was pretending to be Joan Kendall, and was about to beat the crap out of me…When Turk rigged the trapeze at the Cordaro Circus so it wouldn't hold our weight…When those creeps at Perennial Corp found me hacking into their computer…And remember the time in Malta, when Edvard Jensen had Mildred, and we were scaling the wall of that fort…"

"You slipped and almost fell."

"But I didn't. You caught me." She laid his palm against her cheek. "See what I mean? Safe."

Remington was silent for a moment, wondering if she had any idea what such an admission from the woman he loved meant to a man. She'd never before spoken so honestly and openly about her need for him. Were these the dividends he would reap from verbalizing his commitment at last? If only he'd known it years ago! "Laura," he said, and cleared his throat. "You do realize that's been one of your favorite shots at me over the years. 'That's what I love about you, Mr. Steele. Always there when I need you'."

"Just my contribution to our tradition of witty banter. Deep down, where you couldn't see me doing it, I knew it was the truth." Her lips curved in a reminiscent smile. "It's been entertaining, though, hasn't it? Verbally jousting, so to speak? Whipping out snappy comebacks? Trading clever barbs?"

"The spice of life, Laura. Truly the spice of life," he replied, and she could tell he meant it.

"You've got to admit, nobody does it better than us."

"Indeed. Although part of me wonders: will we get out of the habit, now that we've – well, now that we've been honest about our feelings for one another?"

"I don't see why. Loving each other never stopped us before. Besides, is either one of us naïve enough to think being committed means we'll never be annoyed or frustrated with each other again? What better way to let off steam than in quips and witticisms?

"Infinitely preferable to having a go with the bataka, or hurling crockery at one another," he agreed. He was quiet for a moment or two, his expression thoughtful. "Laura, perhaps it's not quite the thing to bring this up, since the topic's been rather off-limits between us up to now. But would you tell me something?"

"Sure."

"When did you know…?" He let the sentence trail off and tugged his ear, an unconscious gesture that always meant some sort of unease. He was looking at her almost diffidently – a state of mind she would have never in her wildest dreams associated with her Mr. Steele.

She waited, puzzled, for him to finish. Then all at once, she understood: his old reluctance about putting feelings into words was still with him. Of course, two weeks was a little soon to expect him to be able to break the pattern of a lifetime. Maybe he would never entirely lose it. Somehow, it no longer seemed as important as it once had.

Not so long ago, presented with such an opportunity, she would've shown no mercy; she would've made him work for it, would've tried to force him into declaring his feelings by assuming a deliberate obtuseness, pretending she didn't understand what he was talking about. But now it gave her heart a queer twist to see his obvious discomfiture. "When did I know I loved you?" she asked quietly.

He nodded.

"Mmm, I'll have to think about that one," she said. "I _wanted_ you from the very beginning. That's never been any secret." The twin vertical creases appeared between her brows, the ones that meant she was concentrating. "I guess I'd have to say it was when the Enterprow Foundation blew up my house. You were so…unlike you. At least, unlike the old you, the you I'd known up til then. Patient, supportive…just _there_. And when you gave me the piano – well." She shrugged. "It wasn't the gesture of a man who was only hanging around until he got me into bed. It was kind. Loving. I would've waited the rest of my life for that man who gave me the piano." She smiled. "Turns out I only had to wait three years."

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice husky, but mostly under control.

Laura couldn't help herself: she reached up and stroked his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. "You're welcome." She waited a beat. "When did you know?"

"Oh, a good deal sooner than you did. Oh, my, yes." Abruptly he switched to the brisk tone that meant he was guarding against an overload of emotion. "You gave me so much more reason to love you, you see."

"What a sweet thing to say, Mr. Steele. Time frame?"

"I can pinpoint the very moment, actually. It was when you fell from that beam outside the Federal Reserve."

Her breath came out in a little sigh. "Oh."

"Not for the obvious reason, the shock of almost losing you, though that was an eye-opener indeed. No, it was while I was fighting to pull you back up. I realized that if it meant saving your life, I'd trade places with you without hesitating. I've never come remotely near to wanting that for anyone, ever, except you. I'd have given my life to save yours, Laura. That's when I knew."

Eyes wide, she gazed at him, deeply touched by the simple sincerity with which he'd spoken. "For a man who doesn't know the words, you sure say them when you say them, Mr. Steele."

"About time I did. Past time, really."

"For both of us. Why did we wait so long?"

"You know why: we've been afraid of history repeating itself. Anna, Wilson…your father, my father…But it's time we put history behind us. I'm not going anywhere, Laura, at least, not without you. Can you try believing it? Can you trust me with your heart the way you've trusted me with your life?"

"Can you believe our relationship isn't a trap, never has been, and let down your guard for good?"

"I've already started, in case you haven't noticed."

"So have I – started trusting you with my heart, I mean. In case you haven't noticed." And she slid her arms around his neck.

He held her close, looking quizzically into her eyes. "I take it we have a deal, Mrs. Steele? A fresh start? No more living in the past?"

"We do, Mr. Steele."

"Then let's seal it with a kiss, shall we?"

And they did.


	6. Chapter 6

(6)

(6)

Seven o'clock that evening found an impeccably-turned-out Remington pacing the sitting room. He took frequent pauses at the mirror to adjust his tie, which didn't need it, to pick an imaginary piece of lint from the glossy black broadcloth of his tux jacket, to frown with dissatisfaction at his perfectly styled hair. All were tics that betrayed his nervousness, though he had scarcely a reason to be: their dinner reservations at L'Alouette were for nine-fifteen, he'd reserved the hotel limo for eight thirty-five, room service would bring the bottle of Moët he'd ordered at seven thirty, and Laura Holt-Steele, who was still getting ready, was nothing if not a paragon of punctuality.

The stereo was softly playing some classic jazz, but he barely heard it, so focused was he on his hopes for the evening. If everything turned out as he planned, it would be the most momentous night of their relationship. It would even eclipse, he thought, their first night together. This was it; he'd made the decision; there was no going back, he was going to take the plunge. Tonight he would ask Laura to marry him for real.

That they had reached this point was still a source of amazement to him. Two months ago, if anyone had asked him, he would have had to say he doubted that he and Laura had a future together. Their relationship seemed to be circling the drain, at its lowest ebb since they'd returned from London the previous September.

Frankly, he hated thinking about those weeks. He knew all too well that he was the one to blame for the breakdown between them. Not normally an overly sensitive man, nor one to hold a grudge, he had nevertheless taken exception to Laura's behavior towards him on a particular case. The blood-doping scheme, it was, where a woman who closely resembled her had switched identities with Laura when they competed in the West Side triathlon. He'd been irritated with Laura from the start. She'd concealed her triathlon participation from him until almost the last moment, without explanation or apology dumping her workload on him while she was in training. His irritation had only grown each day of the case. Somehow the way she spoke and acted throughout was too reminiscent of the old days when she'd treated him as a cipher, a figurehead. The only thing missing was Murphy's ongoing dry commentary.

It wasn't the first time, of course. But always before he'd let it pass without calling her on it. He couldn't have said why, this time, he was suddenly so sick of the never-ending competition between them, the subtle power struggle that underlay every circumstance of their professional partnership. Partners, but not equals! That was the crux of it. He was determined to show her that she could no longer take him so blatantly for granted. It was time she accorded him the respect he'd worked so hard to earn from her.

He set out to accomplish goal in the only way he knew how: by playing games. He started coming into the office late, leaving early, taking longer lunches, blowing off joint appointments. Paperwork he delegated to Mildred, except when it needed his signature. Legwork he completely avoided. He stopped popping into Laura's office at odd times of the day, sharing takeout lunches with her, lounging around with her on the slow days. He took to shutting the connecting door and leaving it shut. When business forced them to interact, he kept it glib and superficial. The only thing about them that remained the same was his unfailing courtesy, which was too deeply ingrained for him to put aside without a prolonged, conscious effort.

It all blew up in his face. He should've expected it. When would he remember that Laura never did react to his strategies in the same way as the women he used to know? You couldn't win, using the silent treatment on her. She was impervious to it. She didn't crack; she didn't cave. She didn't beg him to tell her what was wrong. She made no effort to get back into his good graces. If anything, she was cooler, more impersonal and efficient, than she'd ever been. Her tongue was sharper, her wit more stinging. You want to put distance between us, Mr. Steele? she seemed to challenge him. I'll show you what distance _really _is.

And then had come the crowning blow, the decree from Immigration on his illegal status and possible deportation. It was a stroke of cosmic irony that at first left him literally unable to breathe. For weeks he'd been playing at cutting Laura from his life. Now circumstances had taken the power out of his hands and bid fair to dividing them for real and forever. If he weren't so terrified by the prospects before him, he would've had a good laugh at his own expense.

The worst of it was, he had roiled the waters so badly that he couldn't go to her for help. On the one hand, he was afraid to: what if she refused, decided that his deportation was the answer for both of them, that she was, in fact, better off without him? On the other hand, there was his pride. How good it would feel to solve the problem himself and present it to her as a _fait accompli_, the product of his own resourcefulness and ingenuity! She'd have to respect him then, acknowledge what an asset he was to the agency and to her personally.

Only later did it occur to him that if he had swallowed his pride and confided in Laura from the beginning, they probably would have avoided a good deal of the mess that followed. No doubt her keen instincts quickly would've led her to detect Keyes' malignant influence behind the Gordian knot that held him fast, and they would have gone on from there. There would have been no Clarissa, no fishing trawler, no Hotel del Amor or jail in Las Hadas, and probably no Lindstrom case or Flamingo Club, either.

And he and Laura might have been married – really married – that much sooner.

Thank goodness, that was all behind them. They had left it on the other side of the divide, created by Daniel's death, which separated the people they had been from who they had become. By some mysterious emotional alchemy, his father's death had transformed the mess he'd made into more joy than he'd known was possible.

He could still hardly believe that he had won her heart. He, the man with no name; the man who lived with the deeply hidden fear that she'd discover the unsavory aspects of his past, and that the truth would alienate her for good; the man who couldn't compete on the same footing as the solid, respectable guys she attracted, guys like Murphy Michaels, Wilson Jeffries, William Westfield, Norm Maxwell; the man who, of all the men she knew, had the least to give her.

And yet…he had given her something that the others, the upstanding guys, couldn't. He had fulfilled her dream. None of them could have stepped into the shoes, upheld the image and, finally, worked at her side as Remington Steele. In that respect, not only was his lack of identity not a liability, but almost a gift. It had left him free to make Laura's fantasy boss into a walking, talking, living, breathing reality.

Meanwhile the process of making Steele flesh and blood – putting on the pretense - had somehow remade him into the man Laura had envisioned Steele to be. Imperceptibly, the disguise had become so intimately a part of him that he couldn't distinguish anymore where Steele ended and he began. Nor did he care to do so. Steele was who he wanted to be from now on. He would prove that to her tonight.

A soft rustle from the direction of the bedroom intruded into his thoughts and he turned. Laura was framed in the doorway, a faint smile on her lips, her gaze level as she invited his inspection and approval of her appearance.

It was a complete departure from what he expected to see, which was a simple gown in black or white. Not that she wouldn't have looked lovely in whatever she wore. But tonight, she'd opted for color, a rosy coral that accentuated the chestnut highlights in the shining hair she wore loose to her shoulders. The dress itself was a surprise, too, silk, with wide, off-the-shoulder straps, the sweetheart neckline and shirred bodice in front flowing into a deep cowl in the back. From the fitted waist, the narrow skirt flared slightly from the thigh to the hem, beneath which peeped the toes of her gold pumps.

His didn't move, just stared, his blue eyes drinking her in. The silence spun out, holding them in its spell, and then he spoke, his voice very soft. " 'There's a magnificence in you,' " he quoted, " ' a magnificence that comes out of your eyes and voice, in the way you stand there, in the way you walk. You're lit from within. You're the golden girl, full of life and warmth and delight.' _The Philadelphia Story_. Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, James Stewart, MGM, 1940." He sighed. "Laura, you absolutely take my breath away."

Her face went pink and her smile widened. The compliment held an allusion intensely personal to them, one that an outsider wouldn't understand. Of all the classic movies to which he'd introduced her, _The Philadelphia Story _was her favorite. She knew, too, the boundless admiration he had for Katharine Hepburn's beauty, wit and style in her role as Tracy Lord. "I was just thinking the same about you. You're devastatingly handsome, Mr. Steele."

"Thank you."

By pure coincidence, a mellow upsurge of strings poured from the radio just then: the opening bars of "Moonlight Serenade." He cocked his head towards the stereo and held out his hand. "Shall we?"

They met in the middle of the room and at once were in one another's embrace. The furniture posed an obstacle, however, limiting the space in which they could move. "I don't think there's enough room," Laura murmured as they barely negotiated a turn.

"Nonsense. We'll just hold one another tighter."

Silence fell for the duration of the song. Laura leaned her head against his shoulder, where she could feel his breath stir her hair, his arm, gentle but strong, around her; Remington relished the scent of her perfume and the softness of the hand clasped in his. When she disengaged it so she could put her arms around his waist, he drew her closer and bent so that his cheek rested on her hair.

After the music died away, they swayed together for a few moments more. She said, "It's been a while since we've done this."

"If you don't count the Flamingo Club," he reminded her. He stole a surreptitious glance at his watch. Seven twenty-nine.

"Do you?"

He smiled wryly. "Only when I'm counting my blessings that we're still together despite everything that's happened in the past three weeks."

Someone rapped smartly at the door to their suite. "Room service!" called a voice.

"I'll get it," said Laura, slipping out of his arms.

Before he had time to object, she had opened the door wide to admit a white-jacketed waiter wheeling a portable table, which was adorned with a damask cloth, two crystal flutes and a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. "Thanks," she said to the waiter as he maneuvered it into place before the sofa. Something passed discreetly from her hand to his.

"My pleasure, madam. Sir. Enjoy your evening." Sketching a bow in her direction and one in Remington's, he withdrew.

Remington watched nonplussed as she extracted the champagne from its bed of ice. How had she gotten wind of his surprise? And why was she taking charge of it? Feminine assertiveness had its place, but this was ridiculous!

Oblivious to his dismay, she looked at him archly. "Care to do the honors, Mr. Steele?"

"Delighted, but Laura, I think there's some - "

Someone else rapped at the door to their suite, calling, "Room service!"

Again, Laura got there first. "Yes?" she said.

Peering over her shoulder, Remington spied a second waiter, a second table, prettily set, two crystal flutes, and champagne on ice in the hallway outside. "Room service for Mr. Steele?" said the waiter.

The Steeles exchanged a glance. "You ordered champagne?" they said simultaneously.

They stopped. Then their explanations tumbled over one another:

"Well, yes, I thought the occasion called for - "

"I wanted to surprise you, so I - "

They stopped again and looked a little sheepishly at the waiter. This time, Remington took the lead. "Afraid there's been a bit of a mix-up, my good man. It appears my wife and I have been rather at cross-purposes, and she's already ordered the champagne. Is there some hotel policy that would forbid us sending this bottle back? We'll pay for the inconvenience, of course."

"Not necessary, sir. I'm sure management will understand."

"Excellent. Here's a little something for your trouble." With a touch of his "Reggie Whitewood" manner, he dismissed the waiter with a generous tip and closed the door.

Laura met his eyes, disappointment over the hitch in her plans plainly written all over her features. He knew that look too well and at once set out to smooth it away. "Er, Laura…did I hear you correctly? Something about a surprise for me?" And he gave her one of his heart-melting, lopsided grins.

"Somehow I think 'surprise' no longer applies here," she said drily.

"Come now, Laura. I'm fraught with anticipation to see what you've planned. Let's see, where were we?...Ah, yes, I remember now." Expertly dislodging the cork from the bottle, he opened the champagne without spilling a drop and filled first one, then the other, of the crystal flutes. He handed hers to her and picked up his own. "What shall we drink to?

She relaxed, the disappointment clearing from her expression, and raised her glass to him. "To you. My partner, in business and pleasure, at the office and at home. The best partner I could ever imagine."

His lopsided grin was back as their glasses touched and crystal chimed on crystal. They drank a sip. "Now to you –" he began. But Laura shook her head.

"No." Gently she laid a finger on his lips before he could say more. "Just you. This is for you."

Setting her glass down, she took his, too, and put it aside. With her hands on his shoulders she steered him back to the sofa and pushed until he got the hint and sank down on it. "Don't move."

He heard the rustle of her skirt as she passed into the bedroom. There was the sound of a drawer opening and closing, and then she was back. She lingered behind the couch, and he felt her hand softly caress the back of his neck and her fingers brush along his ear lobe. "Close your eyes and hold out your hands, palms down."

"Handcuffs, Laura?" he smirked.

Instead of answering, she sat down beside him. She pushed his right hand into his lap and took his left in both of hers.

As she'd expected, he was wearing his "Peppler" ring, the cheap gold wedding band they'd procured years ago for the very first case in which they'd posed as a married couple. He'd forgotten to put it on for the Mexican leg of their honeymoon, but dug it out upon their return to Los Angeles, and had worn it intermittently in London and Ireland. She'd noted but not commented on the fact that it hadn't left his finger since their first night together at Ashford Castle.

She proceeded to slide it off. Of course he could tell what she was doing; he drew in his breath sharply. The hand she held began to tremble a little and she felt him try to steady it. She pressed it between hers for a moment before continuing with her task.

Getting the ring off wasn't as easy as she'd anticipated. "You might have to help me here," she said at last.

Keeping his eyes closed, he complied. But he hesitated once he had the Peppler band between thumb and forefinger. She took it from him, set it on the coffee table and picked up the velvet box from the Bond Street jeweler.

Gold gleamed against dark blue velvet; an emerald-cut sapphire sparkled in the lamplight. She gently removed the beautiful ring from its velvet bed and was surprised as she did so to find that her hands were shaking as much as Remington's.

Taking his left hand in her right again, she eased the ring onto his fourth finger. When it was in place, she stroked his hand once more and then released it. "Open your eyes."

He did, very slowly. She watched the droop of his lashes while he stared down at the ring. When he looked up at her at last, his eyes, blue as the sapphire that now adorned his left hand, were glistening. "Laura…" he said hoarsely.

She hushed him as she had earlier with her hand on his mouth. "Don't say anything yet," she said. "Just listen."

He swallowed and nodded. "All right."

She said, "I was hard on you in Los Angeles, when I found out about Clarissa, and then after the fishing trawler. I said some things - things I shouldn't have said - about our partnership and what you mean in my life, how I don't need you and can't wait for the next two years to be over. If I could take them back, I would. They weren't true. It would've been my own fault if you'd taken me at my word and gone off with Clarissa for good."

"I'd have never done that, Laura," he said.

"Why not?" she said. "I mean, why wouldn't you? In all this time together, when did I ever give you a reason not to? I was always waiting for you to make the first move. I never told you how much you really are my partner in every way that counts, or how much I need you, or how it doesn't matter anymore about your past, because what you are to me now, in the present, is so much more important."

Emotion was taking over by now; she had to work to keep her voice even. "They could've deported you. They still could, if Tony was lying about his pull with the INS, or if he decides to get back at us that way. I could still lose you. I didn't take that seriously enough in the beginning. So this ring – it's to tell you I'm sorry. And that I'm in it with you for keeps, no matter what that means or how long it takes. It's the inscription on the ring, by the way."

He drew off the gold circlet and tilted it toward the light. In tiny letters along its inner curve were the words "_For Keeps"_ and initials, his and hers. To his astonishment, the date was that of their sham wedding.

He was silent as he put it back on. Studying his reaction, Laura fought down a sudden wave of nervousness that she'd said something horribly wrong, or that she'd misheard him earlier, that he really didn't want a commitment at all and that they were back to where they'd been before Ashford Castle, or even before their wedding.

Then he reached over, took both her hands, bent and kissed them one after the other. It was a gesture he'd made on other occasions, when he was goofing around or trying to distract her from losing her temper. This time, though, his expression was serious, his touch tender. Straightening, he gazed at her. "What did I ever do to deserve you, Laura?" he said.

"Don't you mean, what did _I_ ever do to deserve _you_?" She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Minutes went by. "Mmmm, Laura," he said at length. "Much as I'd like to continue our dialogue in this particular form, we've dinner reservations for nine-fifteen."

She turned his wrist so that she could see his watch. "It's only quarter to eight."

"Which gives us just enough time." Rising, he left her side just long enough to retrieve the champagne bottle and refill their glasses.

It wasn't the way his plan was supposed to unfold. He had, in fact, intended to draw the evening out and give her the ring after dinner. But his sense of timing, always reliable, told him to throw the old script out, to seize the moment. He would make it work. After all, weren't flexibility and improvisation two of his greatest gifts?

He raised his glass. "My turn to propose a toast, eh?"

"Your turn," she agreed.

"Well, then. To my lovely bride. And the answer to the question you posed in Mexico."

As their glasses clinked again, she fixed him with a look of genuine puzzlement. "What question?"

"The question, 'what comes after we experience the magical moment?' " She still looked blank. "The Hotel del Amor?" he prompted. "Rise to the occasion? Let the chips fall where they may?"

She gave a soft laugh. "Oh, yes. Well, I'll bite. What does come after?"

Slowly, he reached into his interior jacket pocket and drew something out of it. "This." In his hand was a small, velvet-covered box. "This is what comes after."

He had long ago discovered that of all the women of his acquaintance, past and present, none had eyes as expressive as Laura's. By now, he thought he knew every mood they could convey. But the look in them at the moment he put that box into her hand and closed her fingers over it was one he had never seen there before. He would never forget it.

Surprise seemed to have immobilized her; at least, she looked uncertain what to do next. "Go ahead, open it," he urged her.

She did as he asked and caught her breath at what she saw. "Oh, my."

It was a gold band, set with a row of three princess-cut sapphires alternating with two radiant-cut diamonds. Laura looked up, beaming, her dimple very much in evidence.

"It's what they call an eternity ring," he explained. "Not exactly a traditional sort of engagement ring or wedding band. Then again, we're not exactly a traditional couple, eh? But entirely appropriate for the purpose."

Putting the box on the table, he again took both her hands. "I know the future's not as settled as we could wish. So much depends on what Immigration does next. But I can tell you this. No matter what happens – whether they're still scrutinizing us, whether Roselli really has cleared us with them – I don't want to live a charade with you for the next two years and go our separate ways at the end of it. Nor do I want to revert to our former pattern, as it were, when we return to Los Angeles. We've come too far for that."

"I don't want that, either."

"Then, Laura Holt-Steele - " he got down on one knee – "will you do me the very great honor of becoming – or remaining, as the case may be – my wife?"

Laura looked deeply into his eyes for a moment. "Mr. Steele…Harry - "

"Remington," he corrected her gently.

The look on her face told him without words that she understood what the substitution meant. "Remington," she repeated. "I will."

"You will?"

"Of course I will."

"Of course you will." And his smile lit up his entire face.

He reached over to remove the ring from the box. "May I?"

For answer, she gave him her left hand. Her smiling gaze never left his face while he put the ring on for her. When he was finished, they twined their fingers together. "Funny that we both chose sapphires," she commented as they admired the two bands.

"The gem that represents constancy, loyalty and faithfulness. I'd say it's the perfect symbol to plight our troth with."

She looked amused. " 'Plight our troth'?"

"Certainly. Or pledge our undying devotion, if you prefer. 'Til death do us part.' Isn't that what we're doing?" She didn't answer, and he glanced up quickly. "Laura?"

Was he imagining it, or did she hesitate a moment before she spoke? "Sure. Of course. It's just when you put it in those terms - I guess it's going to take some getting used to." She smiled at him a little tremulously.

The twinge of apprehension he'd felt dissipated as he looked at her. This was Laura, after all: the woman who had made a reputation through her prudence, caution and rationality. Was it really so surprising that she'd have second thoughts about a decision she hadn't taken time to consider carefully before making? He couldn't blame her, really. But he knew an encouraging sign when he saw it. The very fact that she'd accepted his proposal as soon as he made it, without mulling it over first, was proof of the strength of her love for him. Where another man, one who didn't know her so well, might have been a trifle put out, he recognized definite progress.

He got up and sat beside her, taking her in his arms. "It's all right, Laura," he whispered. "We've plenty of time. We'll get used to it together."


	7. Chapter 7

(7)

(7)

L'Alouette was housed in what had once been a merchant's 19th century mansion that had been carved into flats after the war. The current owners had gutted it completely five years ago and restored to its former architectural glory, if not, precisely, its former function. There were dining rooms on all three floors, differently themed, a ballroom where a small orchestra played on the weekends, and two large drawing rooms where guests could sip cocktails and sample hors d'oeuvres in comfort while they waited for their tables. There was no lounge or bar. Yet the place was wildly successful, if the size of the crowds was any indication, or the wait for a reservation, even for an ordinary weekend. Remington had made theirs a full ten days before their arrival in London.

So it was that the first floor dining room was typically full as the maitre d' ushered the Steeles to a table set into an intimate alcove. He would have pulled out Laura's chair for her, but Remington forestalled him, and he gave way graciously, directed their attention to the night's special dishes, and departed.

Laura glanced around the room appreciatively. "How did you know about this place? It's isn't one of your old haunts, is it?"

"I've never been here, actually. Daniel used to rave about it, though. He said their tournedos was the best he'd ever eaten."

"Daniel. I might've known." But the tone of her voice was indulgent.

"Say what you will about him, but you have to admit he had superb taste."

"Like father, like son?"

"Well, Daniel was a good teacher. I like to think, though, that I've surpassed him in some areas. Well, in one thing, anyway" – he gazed at her meaningfully – "Mrs. Steele."

Laura smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment as as their waiter arrived. "Have you made your selection, m'dame?"

She gestured towards Remington. "My husband's the gourmet in the family. I'll leave it up to him."

"Excellent, Mrs. Steele," Remington said with an approving nod. "In that case, let's start with the artichoke and goat cheese terrine, shall we? Lobster bisque for the second course…for the fish course, roast sablefish with sauterne sauce, followed by…hmmmm…medallions of rabbit with feuilles de brick and Lyonnaise potatoes with Bordelaise sauce. For the salad course, the blended bibb, frisse and watercress."

"And the wine, m'sieur?"

"Ah…the Châteauneuf du Pape '77 with the main course. Thank you." As the waiter withdrew, he looked across at Laura, to find her gazing at him, a small smile on her lips. "What?" he asked.

"I was thinking about what I said to the waiter. 'Husband.' 'Family'. Maybe this isn't going to be such a big adjustment after all. In my head I've been calling you my husband ever since Ireland."

"You've been calling me Remington, as well."

"Have I?" She seemed genuinely surprised to hear it.

"Indeed. Not consistently, mind you, but enough to make me take notice."

She reached across the table to clasp his hand. "It's what you want me to call you, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said slowly and then hesitated, searching for words. "But there's more to it than that. It's who I am now. Who I want to be from now on. Somewhere along the line it stopped being a role I'd assumed and became a way of life. Extraordinary, wouldn't you say?"

"And a little overwhelming," she replied. "It's one thing to dream up a fictitious boss. It's another thing altogether to have him take on a life of his own."

"I turned your life upside down in the beginning, I know. But it hasn't been unmitigated disaster, has it? There've been times, haven't there, when I've lived up to your ideal?"

"I believe you know the answer to that," she said, echoing the reply he'd given her to a similar question the day before.

He laughed. "Touché. I believe I do. But I'd like to hear you say it."

"Well, let me put it to you this way. That fiasco with Clarissa aside, of course…when I think of Remington Steele and who he is, it's not the man I imagined six years ago. I can't even remember what he was supposed to look like. You've supplanted him in every way…Remington."

He put his other hand over hers. "Then you're all right with it? As I recall, you had some rather strenuous objections in Mexico."

"That was Mexico," she said dismissively. "But are you sure? Now that we know Daniel was your father, you could be that much closer to learning your real name."

"Yes, I thought of that. It doesn't seem to matter so much anymore, my real name. If I even have one. You said he didn't know it, anyway."

They were interrupted by the wine steward, who had approached with a bottle for Remington's inspection. Remington glanced at the label. "We didn't order this."

"It's a gift from another patron, m'sieur, accompanied by this note."

The note consisted of four short lines.

_Congratulations to the happy couple._

_Steele, hope you like the gift Laura bought you._

_See you in L.A._

_Roselli_

"Roselli," he said to Laura in a savage undertone, folding up the paper, and suddenly pushed back from the table. "Where did this come from?" he demanded of the waiter, while Laura snatched up the note and read it.

"The gentleman over there". The waiter indicated a table much nearer to the front of the restaurant than the Steeles'; seeing it empty, he glanced quickly around. "Ah, no, there he is, m'sieur, just exiting."

It was only a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered form disappearing into the anteroom, but it was all Remington needed. In a flash he was on his feet. "Back before you know it," he said to the waiter and then he was off, swiftly threading his way through the crowded restaurant.

"Keep it warm for us," added Laura, jumping up and following him.

An overwhelming sense of déjà vu assailed her as she sprinted after her husband. Las Hadas. An unseen adversary, Keyes, watching them in a restaurant. A blatant provocation masquerading as a gift. Remington' self-control crumbling; his anger getting the best of him. Keyes toppling from the hotel balcony. And, superimposed over that image, Roselli, in the hall at Ashford, deliberately needling Remington, tempting him into a fight, and Remington lunging at him, oblivious to any lurking threat…

She caught up to him in the anteroom, where he had paused. There were two entrances to the restaurant and he looked first at one, then at the other. "There!" he exclaimed.

They raced toward the door that led out to the street. Out on the pavement, they glanced this way and that. Across the street and farther up the block was a cab stand; Roselli, leather-jacketed, was at the first cab in line. He looked up and caught sight of them at the same moment the Steeles spotted him. He wasn't so far away that they couldn't make out the flash of his blue eyes, the curl of scorn on his lip. "Come on," Remington said, grabbing her hand and moving to dash after their quarry.

But Laura anticipated him, her sense of déjà vu stronger than ever. She yanked him back before he could even step over the curb. He turned to her sharply, his expression one of incredulity and anger mixed. "Laura, he's getting away," he growled.

"Astute observation, Mr. Steele. And we're letting him go," she said, hanging on tight. "Care to tell me why we're chasing him in the first place? And what you thought we were going to do with him if we caught him?"

Roselli's cab pulled away from the curb and started down the street. Remington looked after it with a thunderous frown. "He followed us to the restaurant tonight! Not ten minutes ago, he threatened us, damn it!"

"And just how do you propose to set about proving it? With an innocuously worded note? A bottle of wine? You know as well as I do there's not a single policeman in this city who'd consider that evidence of criminal intent. It would be our word against his." The cab was accelerating, and its taillights dwindled as its distance from them lengthened. Remington shook her off; this time she didn't prevent him. He flung his arms up in frustration and began pacing furiously. "Or don't tell me," she went on. "You weren't planning to involve the police at all. You were going to take matters into your own hands!"

"Simply taking the initiative!" he shouted. "Getting to him before he gets to us!"

"Playing right into his hands! He dangles the bait in front of you, you fall for it and chase headlong after him, blundering into God knows what trap he's set for you. Sound familiar, Mr. Steele? Or can it possibly be that you've already forgotten Norman Keyes?"

"Laura, I'm not going to sit back with my hands folded while that bugger - "

She looked at him steadily. "No, we're not. But we're going to be proactive about it, not reactive, with our heads screwed on straight and with information as our weapon. Systematic, analytical and objective –"

"Described yourself to a tee, Laura," he said under his breath.

"Mildred's already got a head start," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "We'll see what she's come up with first thing Monday morning. In the meantime, I'm going back to the restaurant. Coming?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned and strode away.

He lingered for a moment, gazing with a scowl up the street, where Roselli's cab had long since disappeared. For a moment he imagined the satisfying crunch of the other man's facial bones as his fist connected with them. Then he followed in Laura's wake.

They were silent as they resumed their seats at L'Alouette. The spell between them was broken; Remington was still seething, and Laura wasn't in the mood to jolly him out of it. Instead, she scanned the note again. "Sounds like he must have been following me while I was shopping," she remarked.

"Stalking you, more like."

"I never saw a sign of him. Think he was in disguise?"

"Possibly. Though Antony never struck me as capable of that degree of complexity. Flying fists, blazing guns, that's more his style."

"Well, given his precipitous departure last time, I'm surprised he has the guts to show his face in London, with or without a disguise."

"Didn't you say Kemodov had cleared him? No doubt the MI5 has been fêting him non-stop ever since for dispatching Fitch." He took up the bottle of champagne and examined it with an air of distaste, as if he felt the residue from the impress of Roselli's hands on it. Upon reading the label, he raised his eyebrows. "Excellent choice. I didn't think he had it in him. A shame to waste it, but somehow the thought of imbibing makes me distinctly uneasy."

"Has it been tampered with?"

"Hard to tell. It hasn't been uncorked, at any rate. Still…" He signaled the maître d'. "I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, old chap, but the gentleman who sent this isn't what you'd call a friend. Would you mind taking it back? Thank you." He looked across the table at Laura, a glint of returning good humor in his eye. "This seems to be our night for turning down bottles of wine."

"Unwanted wine seems to be the running theme of our entire honeymoon, when you stop to think about it. Like some kind of Greek tragedy, the same ploy at the beginning and at the end. I wonder if Tony saw it that way, or if he just isn't smart enough to come up with anything better on his own."

"My guess would be the latter."

She folded the note and tucked it into her evening bag. "I wasn't arguing with your goal out there, you know, in trying to stop him. Only your methods."

"Saving me from myself yet again, eh, Laura?" he said drily.

"Thinking about Las Hadas, and how close you came to being executed for a murder that never happened. Seeing some alarming parallels in what happened tonight. Tony knows what it takes to push your buttons. Remember the way he acted at the castle that morning? It occurred to me then that he was deliberately taunting you."

"Exactly my point." He leaned forward, his eyes dark and intense. "From the moment our plane landed in Mexico – no, even before that - ever since we stepped off Juan's boat, someone's been jerking us around like puppets at the end of a string. First Keyes, now Roselli. I'm bloody sick and tired of dancing to someone else's tune. About time we turned the tables and did some jerking of our own."

She patted his hand. "Don't lose heart, Mr. Steele. We beat Keyes at his own game, didn't we? We'll beat Roselli, too."

They were interrupted by the arrival of their first course, and they turned their attention to the food. Soon it began to have its effect; the tension between them began to ease, the episode with Roselli receding into the background. It would've taken much more than that, anyway, to disturb for very long either their old camaraderie or the new absorption in each other that had developed over the course of their honeymoon. By the time they'd finished their soup and fish, harmony was restored.

L'Allouette's owners were of the philosophy that dinner is an event, not to be rushed, and that gentle exercise between courses, in the form of dancing, is a necessity for promoting proper appreciation for the entire feast. With the lobster bisque and sablefish thoroughly dispatched, Remington rose. "Shall we trip the light fantastic, Mrs. Steele?"

He pulled out her chair for her, and they made their way toward the ballroom. He'd moved aside to let her precede him, as he always did; his hand rested lightly on the small of her back while they walked, as it usually did. Laura smiled to herself. That gesture – courteous, protective, slightly proprietary - never failed to make her heart beat a little faster. Even in the early days, when he'd seemed to be nothing but surface flash, and his only motive was getting her into bed, that gentle pressure bespoke a tenderness completely at odds with the rest of his behavior. Funny, she'd never felt the urge to assert her self-reliance by shaking him off the way she might have with other men. It was almost as if she'd always known, deep down, that his hand really did belong there.

Heads were turning here and there as they passed. She wondered if he noticed it. "People are staring at us," she murmured as they entered the ballroom.

"Of course they are." On the dance floor, he swept her into his embrace and then glanced around in perfect unconcern. "They can't keep their eyes off my lovely wife." He smiled down at her. "Neither can I."

She dimpled, thinking that she'd never grow tired of hearing that kind of talk from him. The hand that rested on his shoulder moved to caress the back of his neck. "Looks to me like the women can't keep their eyes off my handsome husband."

"Perhaps you're right. But let's not hold it against them, eh?"

"As long as they keep their distance." She leaned back slightly so that she could look him in the eye. "You're mine, Remington. They can't have you."

A grin overspread his features, cocky, amused, the one that had infuriated her on a daily, almost hourly, basis at the beginning of their relationship. She'd always interpreted it to say, No matter how much you try and deny it, we both know perfectly well you find me irresistible, and who can blame you? It had the same quality now, proof positive that her comment had tickled his vanity.

He drew her close again within his encircling arm and looked down, eyebrow quirked, when she laughed. "What?"

"I was just thinking about the first time I ever said that out loud. It was in that Italian restaurant in Santa Monica, on my second or third glass of wine with the first wives club –"

"Bette Midler, Diane Keaton and Goldie Hawn?"

"Janet, Angela, Beth and Megan. You walked in with Malcom Marcall -"

"Ah, yes, the Marcall case! How could I forget?"

"- and the four of them took one look at you and started collectively drooling, even Janet, the rabid man-hater, and wanted to know who you were. Whose you were. And it just popped out of my mouth."

"_In vino veritas_?" he suggested.

"It's the only way you would've gotten the truth out of me in those days," she replied.

He mused silently for a moment. "Laura, forgive me for stating the obvious, but we closed the Marcall case over four years ago."

"Brilliantly, too, if I do say so myself."

But he wasn't to be sidetracked. "Veckmer, Keever…that was six, seven months later, wasn't it? Murphy and Bernice were gone by then."

"You know it was," she said sternly, but laughter sparkled in her eyes. She could guess exactly what he was driving at. "This line of questioning wouldn't have anything to do with the little confession I made this afternoon, would it?"

"Of course not. Not at all. Merely making idle conversation."

"Because there's a difference between falling in love and realizing you love someone, you know. And I've admitted that I wanted you from the beginning."

"Believe me, I recognize the distinction."

They danced for a while without speaking. Then abruptly he murmured, "Laura."

"Hm?"

"Say it again, would you?"

At the change in his tone of voice, she looked up quickly. The cocky gleam was gone, eclipsed by the same tentative, almost wistful, expression she'd glimpsed this afternoon. It occurred to her suddenly that he must have looked just like that each time when, as a little orphan, he was dumped in a new home.

She stopped dancing and removed her arms from around him. But it was only so that she reach up and cup his face between her hands. "They can't have you, Remington," she said softly. "You're mine."

They were a couple who rarely made public demonstrations of their affection, and they didn't now. He simply wrapped both arms around her waist and held her tight. As she returned the embrace, he bent his head so that his lips were close to her ear. "The old saying holds true here, Laura. 'What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander'. "

"Oh? How?"

"They," indicating with an incline of the head the men around them, "can't have _you_. Neither can your friend Maxwell, nor that chap in Iowa, or Milton the chemist, or Murphy…or Roselli…"

There was a pause. "You left something out," she prompted him.

It only took him a moment to realize what it was. "You're mine," he whispered.

She turned her head slightly, and he felt her lips touch his cheek. She whispered back, "About time you owned up to it, Mr. Steele."

Somehow, though he couldn't see her face, he knew she was smiling.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 8

(8)

(8)

Their flight to Los Angeles wasn't scheduled to depart until 3 p.m. the next day, but Laura was up before the morning had barely begun. In a characteristic blaze of energy, she'd showered, dressed, and had finished almost all their packing before Remington even opened his eyes. He was just sitting up in bed rather groggily when she came into the room with a steaming cup. "You'd better get a move on. Check out's at eleven," she said and handed the cup to him. Tea, he noted: no milk, no sugar. Perfect.

He sipped gratefully. "Couldn't we request a late check out?"

"No, because we've got a stop to make before we head for the airport. That reminds me - I'd better get that stuff organized in the duffel bags before I call the porter." She was crossing into the sitting room as she spoke. "Your blow dryer's in the bathroom, in your carry on bag," she called. "I left your garment bag unlocked so you can get at your clothes." Back with something wrapped in a napkin, she put it in his hand. Then she perched on the edge of the bed and leaned over and kissed him. "Good morning, Mr. Steele."

The napkin was wrapped around a croissant. Remington grinned as he prepared to take a bite. "Laura, do you realize you've just served me breakfast in bed for the first time?"

"We're still on our honeymoon, aren't we? That means pampering. But just so you know, don't expect it every day." She patted his leg and got up. "'When the packing's finished, I'll have the bags sent down and then I'm going to run an errand. Meet me at the front desk at eleven, huh?" And she was off before he even had time to reply.

When she'd gone, he lingered in bed for a few minutes, waiting for the strong, hot tea to have an effect. His morning energy level was never a match for Laura's, and today the deficit was worse than usual. He'd had a wakeful night, had not, in fact, dropped off until sometime after dawn. He couldn't stop himself from going over and over in his mind the incident with Roselli.

Long after Laura had fallen asleep, the questions continued to nag him. When had Roselli arrived in London, and when did he find out that the Steeles were there? How had he discovered where they were staying? Where they were dining? Had he followed them from the hotel to L'Alouette? If so, how had he tracked their movements? Did he pick them up leaving the St. John, perhaps even hang about inside, watching for them? Or had he bribed a member of the hotel staff, a front desk clerk, or maybe a maid, to keep tabs on their comings and goings? Neither he nor Laura had suspected Roselli's presence until Roselli chose to reveal it. How had he managed to avoid them spotting him? How had he pulled it off while tailing Laura earlier in the day?

It was the last question that had unsettled him the most. As he thought it through, his arms had tightened instinctively around his wife, who was curled peacefully against his side. True, she hadn't expected to see Roselli today, so she wasn't looking for him. But she was the most observant person he'd ever known. Her talent for registering and evaluating her surroundings was second nature, and she rarely suspended it, even in the most casual moments. If she hadn't seen Roselli, it meant he'd taken pains not to be seen. What did that say about the extent of the other man's capabilities? That they'd underestimated him was certain. And what did it portend for them if he really planned, as he'd written in his note, to "see them in L.A."? The implications made Remington want to shiver.

Staring up into the darkness, he'd remembered that was exactly the reaction Laura had had after Roselli's' intrusion at Ashford Castle. "We really don't know anything about him," she'd said. Well, she hadn't been quite accurate there. They knew that he had some level of official access that allowed him to slip easily in and out of the INS hierarchy, issuing directives that were obeyed. They knew that he was familiar with the highest rungs of British and Russian intelligence, and that they were familiar with him. And they had both seen how expertly he handled his fists and his gun. Oh, yes, he and Laura knew more about Roselli than it would seem at first blush.

And it was beginning to scare the hell out of him.

Now, the next morning, as he showered and shaved, he wondered if the clear light of day would do anything to minimize his sense of foreboding. Putting a continent between them and Roselli, at least for the time being, would be a good start. He paused in brushing his teeth and gazed somberly into space. There would be more to contend with when they got home than settling down into married life - if, indeed, they would have even a chance to do so. After a moment he shook his head to clear it. Look at it this way, he admonished himself. It's not as if you and Laura are entirely at a disadvantage here. Forewarned is forearmed. And it's not the first time the two of you've faced this sort of gifted malevolence, either. Remember Major Descoines – surely a much cleverer fellow than Roselli could ever hope to be. So was Keyes more than an adequate foe. Yet here we are. No reason to think we won't be able to outwit Roselli when the time comes.

On his way down to the lobby, he focused his considerable talent for dissimulation into appearing relaxed. He didn't expect to fool Laura, of course; she knew him far too well for that. But it would be enough, he was sure, to convince any hostile eyes that might be watching. He was damned if he'd give Roselli the satisfaction of seeing he'd rattled them in any way.

Laura was there to meet him as soon as he'd exited the elevator. "Our cab's right outside. I'll turn the key in at the front desk, you take your bags out." She had on one of his favorite outfits, he noted, a double-breasted pantsuit, fawn-colored with a thin purple pinstripe – the same one she'd worn while in London last fall to bring him home and in which she had, in one fell swoop, saved him both from slowly bleeding to death and from capture by Scotland Yard. He wondered if those memories had any influence on his preference. Probably they did, he decided.

On the pavement outside the hotel, he stood back so that she could precede him into the cab and then climbed in beside her. "Okay, driver," she said as soon as they had settled in their seats. "Let's go."

The cabbie steered them into the flow of traffic and picked up speed after exiting a roundabout. He seemed already to have a destination in mind, although Laura had given no instructions that Remington had heard. He eyed her speculatively. She had conjured up a bouquet of white roses - from thin air, apparently, unless they were the object of her mysterious errand this morning – and was holding them on her lap. "I suppose there's no use in asking where we're going, is there?" he said.

Her expression was bland. "You'll see when we get there."

He kept quiet after that, focusing his attention on the passing scenery, alert to any clue. It wasn't an indirect route to the airport, he could tell that much. Nor were they heading toward the city center. They were, instead, traveling in the opposite direction, into the suburbs. From time to time he glanced inquiringly at Laura, but her face gave nothing away, although he thought he detected a peculiar tenseness about her. Anticipation? Nervousness? He wasn't at all sure what to call it, or what her emotional state might actually be.

At last the driver slowed at the entrance at what seemed to be a park, judging from the gravel sweep that formed the main drive, the elaborate curves of the double iron gates, and the acres of yews, willows and oaks that spread on either side of them. As they proceeded farther, however, there was no longer any question as to where they were. The low domed buildings, the rows of markers and monuments, the grassy mounds, brightened with flowers: they were in a cemetery.

"Stop here, would you, driver? We can walk, it isn't far." Laura reached into her purse and handed the man several bills. "You'll wait for us?"

When he had confirmed that he would – the tip was a generous one – she turned to Remington. For the first time, there was a crack in her composure, and he saw that the tension in her was born of nervousness. "Would you come with me, Mr. Steele? There's something I have to show you."

Completely mystified by now, he nodded. He got out of the cab without a word and waited for her to come around to his side. She carried the roses in one hand, and slipped the other through the crook of his arm. "It's just down that path and a little to the right," she said.

They headed the way she'd indicated. She was correct, it was only a short walk, and soon she was squeezing his arm and slowing to a stop. "Here."

It was a square monument, almost as tall as Laura, of black granite, polished so that it shone like marble, with graceful carved columns on either side of a smooth face. The face bore a plaque of brushed silver, about three feet tall, and on the plaque was an inscription.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SIR DANIEL CHALMERS  
1918-1986  
BELOVED FATHER  
IN RECOGNITION OF SERVICE TO QUEEN AND COUNTRY  
"GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS, THAT HE SHOULD LAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIENDS"

She waited for him to break the silence. Between her and Mildred, it had taken a lot of work to pull this off, all kinds of inquiries and delicate negotiations and coordination between the British military, British intelligence, the British and American embassies and the cemetery officials, not to mention turning around the work on the monument itself in record time. It was a good thing, she'd reflected, that she was still owed a few favors in official circles, thanks to the key role she'd played last year in unmasking the Whitechapel Slasher. Otherwise, they might never have accomplished it.

Buoying her up through all of the frustration and annoyance was her anticipation of this moment. She'd hugged it to herself, picturing his astonishment at seeing his father honored this way. How delighted he would be! It had been hard, at times, to conceal her excitement from him.

But he wasn't delighted, not at bit. She peered up at him, trying to gauge his mood. Finally she could stand it no longer. "What do you think of it?"

He kept his eyes on the plaque. "You did this?"

"It was Mildred, mostly. It's how she occupied her time at the castle while we were taking turns springing Tony from the Soviet embassy."

"But it was your idea?"

"Well, yes." So far, none of this was unfolding the way she had imagined. He continued studying the marker; his face in profile seemed stern, remote, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Suddenly she found herself fumbling for the right words. "I guess I should have consulted you first. I'm sorry. You said you weren't up to making any decisions about it, so I thought I would surprise you – but if I took too much upon myself…" He didn't reply, and she felt her face growing hot. She made a helpless little motion with one hand. "Say something."

At last he turned his head and looked at her. Relief surged through her. He wasn't angry, she saw; he was simply struggling to keep his composure. "I would," he said unsteadily, "but I don't have the words." He looped his arm around her and pulled her close to his side. "You're remarkable." He leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Remarkable."

She relaxed against him, head on his shoulder. "This might sound funny, coming from me, but I wanted to do this for him, as well as you. I owe him a lot – more than I can ever repay - and now I'll never even be able to say thanks. If it hadn't been for Daniel, there wouldn't be a you. You wouldn't _be_ you."

He gazed down at her wonderingly. "I thought you considered him a bad influence on me."

"I'll always hate the fact that he made you into a con man. You're right about that. But you're also the man I was talking about yesterday, the man I can trust with my life. He was part of that. It didn't happen by accident."

"No," he said. "No."

They were quiet for a moment or two. Remington reached out to run his palm along the cool granite of the monument, to trace a finger along the letters inscribed on the brushed silver plaque. "He would've loved this, you know. 'For service to Queen and Country'." There was another pause while he drew a few shaky breaths. "Colonel Frobish of the Tenth Royal Hussars," he murmured, and then his voice broke. "Ah, Daniel…"

Tears in her eyes, Laura turned him to her and took him in her arms, careful not to crush the roses. He wrapped himself tight around her and buried his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know it's not the same. I wish you could be there with him in Russia. I'd give anything for you to see his real grave. I wish you could. I wish you could."

There was an interval during which they held each other without speaking. At length he straightened up, though he didn't altogether release her, and drew the pocket square from his jacket. He dried her cheeks and then his own before looking down at her with an oddly searching gaze. "Laura, do you believe any of it? That inscription, 'greater love'? Christmas, Good Friday, Easter?"

She thought it over. She knew, from the stories he'd told her, how much he'd suffered in Ireland at the hands of Church people, but also that the greatest kindess he'd experienced as a child was through a compassionate priest and a wizened little nun in a parish whose name he'd never known. "I think," she said, and stopped. "Mostly I do, I think," she said at last. "Despite the fact I don't show it much. My mother's a Congregationalist from Connecticut, don't forget."

"So do I. Well, then, if it's true…then Daniel's no more in Russia than he is here. And someday…with any luck…I'll see him again."

"I think maybe you will, at that," she said softly. She held out the roses to him. "These are for him – in memory of him, anyway. You probably guessed that already."

He took the bouquet from her hand and slowly knelt down before the marker. He considered the flowers in his hand for a beat. Then he divided them into two smaller bunches and got to his feet. "He would want his daughter-in-law to share in this, I think." And he offered her half of the flowers.

She choked on a little sob, surprising them both; her tears welled up again. She took the flowers from his hand and looked up at him questioningly. He nodded his encouragement. She knelt then, as he had done, laid the roses gently down on the short spring grass, and bowed her head. When at last she raised it, Remington took her hand and helped her up. Then it was his turn, and Laura stayed close beside him while he said a prayer.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "I wish there was more we could do, somehow. A priest, or – I don't know…Maybe this is enough. I hope it is." He stood up. In a final caressing gesture, he touched the monument once more. "God bless, Daniel," he whispered. "Rest well."

Laura caught his hand and interlaced her fingers with his. Together they walked up the path towards the cemetery gate. At the bend in the path, where Daniel's marker was still just visible, they halted for one last look. The cemetery was quiet and empty around them. Then they turned hand in hand and continued on to where their cab awaited them.

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Chapter 9

(9)

(9)

The Steeles' check-in at Heathrow was as uneventful as their arrival at Gatwick had been, at least in terms of Remington's immigration status. The real test would come, of course, when they landed at LAX. Looking ahead to that moment – it was only hours away, after all – Laura hunted for a pay phone so she could place a call to Mildred. She came back with encouraging news. "Not a peep out of the INS, Mildred says." They started towards their departure gate with their carry on luggage. "No more letters, no visits, no phone calls. Nothing. Whatever strings Tony pulled, maybe it'll be enough to get you safely back into the country."

"We can hope so, at any rate."

There was a sour edge to Remington's voice, and Laura glanced at him. "What's the matter?"

"I hate being under that man's thumb, that's what's the matter. Either he'll prevent me from entering the U.S., or I'll get in with no problem and owe it all to him. I don't know which galls me the most. The latter, I suspect."

"Be as galled as you want, Mr. Steele. All I care about is that you're coming home with me. If I have Tony to thank for that, then so be it. Not that I'll actually, literally, thank him for it. But I'm grateful all the same."

By now they were at their gate, and they settled in for the duration. Slouched in a chair, Remington prepared to nap, stretching out his long legs, tipping his cap over his eyes and crossing his arms. Laura, meanwhile, pulled out all the receipts they'd accumulated over the past fourteen days and reviewed their expenses. Was there a way in which she could, when tax time rolled around, legitimately write off the money she'd spent to keep the head of the firm from being deported? That would allow her to deduct almost all their bills from Mexico, London and Ireland. It was an interesting question, and she scribbled a reminder to call their accountant on Tuesday to find out.

Finally the attendants began to announce the order in which the passengers could board the flight to Los Angeles. Laura gathered the assorted slips of paper into a neat pile, folded the expense sheet around them, and tucked them into a pocket of her carry on. Then she took Remington by the shoulder and shook him. "They're calling our flight."

He came awake, as he usually did under such circumstances, with a start. "Eh? What? Ah, Laura! What is it? What's wrong?"

"Time to go home, Mr. Steele," she said, laughing at him. "Are you coming?"

"Coming, coming…don't be ridiculous! Of course I'm coming." He scrambled up out of his seat to prove it.

They were busy collecting their belongings – her purse, the carry on luggage, their coats – and pulling out their boarding passes, when a sudden thought occurred him. He stopped and looked at her. "Laura, I just realized something: this really is the end of the honeymoon."

He looked so forlorn at the prospect that she found herself laughing at him again. "You're right. On the other hand, it's also the beginning of our real life together. The inseparable Steeles."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. " 'Inseparable Steeles'? Why, Laura!"

"I just now thought that up. Don't you like it?"

"It makes you sound positively optimistic about us!"

"I _feel_ optimistic about us. Look at everything we've gone through in the past month. Yet here we are, engaged for real...and in love. Like I said: inseparable."

A slow grin lit up his face. "So we are, Mrs. Steele," he softly agreed. "So we are."

Over the loudspeaker, the flight attendant was making the final boarding call for their flight. Laura cocked her head and smiled back at him. "Shall we blow this Popsicle stand, Mr. Steele?"

"We shall indeed, my love." He inclined his head in the motion that meant, go on ahead of me. He fell in just behind her when she did so, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of her back. They merged into the line at the gate, surrendered their boarding passes to the attendant when their turn came and disappeared down the jet way.

It was only then that a tall man wearing a mechanic's jump suit and a baseball cap came forward out of the shadows in which he'd been lingering across the way. Swiftly he turned and strode down the corridor and took the escalator that led to the ticketing level. He stopped at the first international airline he came to and stepped up to the counter. He wasn't conscious of it, but he spoke the same words he'd used at Playa de Oro International, Manzanillo, Colima, Mexico, nearly three weeks before:

"When's your next flight to Los Angeles?"

FINIS  
Next:  
STEELE INSEPARABLE PART II: "Steele-In-Law"


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